


This Body is Yours (and Mine)

by ThatOneGaySlytherin (american_homos_story)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Fingering, Angst, Beauxbatons, Blood Magic, Coming Out, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Happy Ending, Getting Together, HP: EWE, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Introspection, Long-Distance Relationship, Love Triangles, M/M, Miscommunication, No like when I say slow burn I mean it, POV Multiple, Post-War, Quidditch, Redemption, Romance, Romantic Detour, Secret Relationship, Slow Burn, Teacher Harry, Therapy, You've been warned, im fully kidding there's no anal fingering planned i just think that tag is so funny, this burn is looking like it might be slower than i originally planned i deeply apologize
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-09
Updated: 2019-06-18
Packaged: 2019-06-24 12:39:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 69,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15630855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/american_homos_story/pseuds/ThatOneGaySlytherin
Summary: After the disarray that was the past 17 years of Harry's life, everything suddenly making sense makes absolutelyno sense at all. A story about growing, letting go, fading scars, and an unexpected but unbreakable love."He waits for the familiar sneer, already preparing to roll his eyes in return, when a soft smile almost knocks him off his feet. He frowns, blinking and making sure he’s seeing things correctly, and then suddenly Malfoy is on the train, out of sight. He can’t help but glance over his shoulder a few times toward where Malfoy had stepped onto the scarlet locomotive, his gentle grin still playing in Harry’s mind. He thought things might start to feel normal again soon, but he realizes now that this is only the beginning of the truly abnormal."





	1. surprise

**Author's Note:**

> Title and fic vaguely inspired by [Mess is Mine by Vance Joy](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1C816p-KTNk)
> 
> POV: Harry

Harry Potter wakes up on his eighteenth birthday, feeling unusually well rested. He takes a moment to stretch, yawning and noticing the soft light pouring in through the window. Ron is still asleep, snoring softly. Harry lazily plunks his glasses on to his face after rubbing his eyes, then stands to look out at the backyard.

He knows that in the Muggle world, 18 is supposed to be an important birthday. He doesn’t feel any different, though; there’s nothing special about the mid-summer morning, about a ginger cat chasing a gnome through the Burrow’s garden. In fact, he’d almost forgotten that his birthday was even approaching, and is surprised yet oddly pleased that nobody else has mentioned it at all. Harry would love to just have a normal, peaceful day with his friends. Play some Quidditch. Enjoy one of Mrs. Weasley’s home-cooked meals.

Ron mutters something in his sleep and turns over, his face scrunched up. Harry wonders if he’s having a nightmare. They’ve all been having them, ever since the war. Rarely do they talk about their contents, but every morning all summer the three of them exchange knowing looks, the dark circles gradually lessening as the tragedy trudges further and further into the past.

Harry smiles to himself as Crookshanks finally catches the gnome he’d been chasing. Quiet footsteps approach the room and Harry turns to the door, which slowly swings open.

Hermione smiles when she sees Harry awake, then rolls her eyes at the sight of a very much asleep Ron. She presses a finger to her lips as she sits down at the edge of his bed, then leans her head toward Ron’s ear. Harry, realizing what’s about to happen, stifles his laughter as Hermione half-shouts, “Ronald!”

She backs away immediately as Ron shoots out of bed, scrambling for his wand. When he realizes his surroundings, he exhales and flops back onto the messy covers.

“Bloody _hell_ , Hermione! Why not blast me in the face with cold water instead? Or better yet, just roll me right out of bed!”

Hermione laughs. “Both things I considered, but this was easiest.”

Ron looks at Harry, betrayed. “And you just let her do that, did you?”

Harry laughs again, shrugging. “I wanted to see what would happen.”

“Absolutely mental, both of you,” Ron mutters, shaking his head.

“It’s not my fault you chose to sleep in,” Hermione chides, kissing his cheek. “You need to get dressed and come downstairs.”

“Excellent, is it breakfast already?” Harry asks.

“Erm, yes,” Hermione says, avoiding his eye for a split second. “But _you_ need to do something about your hair!”

“Well, I’ve just woken up,” he says defensively, reaching up to feel that his hair is an absolute disaster, no doubt caused by tossing and turning.

“Come. On.” she hisses at Ron, pulling on his arm. He attempts to stay planted firmly on his bed, but the force of her tugs lands him on the floor. He groans and stands, still blinking sleep out of his eyes.

Harry eyes Hermione suspiciously as she leaves the room, giving Ron one last warning to get dressed and come downstairs. He decides that this just must be a side effect of the new developments in their relationship and grabs a comb, heading to the bathroom to see if he can do anything about his hair. He wets the comb but finds that his hair is _just_ too short to really be tamed by it. It still sticks up in the back and he sighs, looking at himself in the mirror.

He starts almost every morning by studying his scar. Not because he has any fondness toward it, but because he’s noticed that somehow, it’s started to fade ever so slightly. For the first month at the Burrow he’d been sure it was just a trick of the light, his eyes playing tricks on him, but then the curiosity had gotten the better of him. He’d held an older picture of himself up to the mirror, confirming that it has, in fact, softened just slightly. Not enough to really be noticeable to others, but after seventeen years of seeing it so pronounced, Harry can tell a definite difference.

He gives up on his hair, trying to flatten it one more time with his hand as he returns the comb to his and Ron’s shared room. Ron is gone, the clothes he’d slept in thrown haphazardly onto his bed. Harry puts the comb away and takes a minute to at least give his side the appearance of being organized, and once satisfied starts to head downstairs. The lack of noise in the usually lively house is mildly disconcerting, but the smell of bacon wafting up the stairs is enough to quell his worries.

When he enters the kitchen, he’s almost knocked flat backwards as he’s met with a deafening shout of “HAPPY BIRTHDAY HARRY!”

The entire Weasley family—sans Charlie, Bill, and Fleur—and Hermione are standing around the long kitchen table, a practical feast of breakfast foods steaming in heaping piles on the table. A banner stretches across the room that says ‘Happy Birthday Harry!’ and includes a few Snitches zipping between colorful bursting fireworks.

Harry gapes at the scene, his mouth opening and closing. “I…”

Before he can say anything Mrs. Weasley is upon him, kissing his forehead. “Happy birthday, dear,” she says, her voice quivering slightly.

“Mrs. Weasley, I—”

She holds up a hand to stop him. “Harry Potter, there will be no arguing today. We are _celebrating_ , whether or not you decide to join us!” She steps back, smiling.

Hermione comes around the table, her grin borderline mad. She throws her arms around Harry, who returns to hug, still at a loss for words.

“Hermione, I don’t—”

“I agree with Mrs. Weasley, Harry. We all decided it would be best to make it a surprise because we knew you’d _never_ agree to a big party like this.”

“You’re right, this is crazy!” Harry says, feeling slightly frustrated.

Ron shakes his head. “You’re the one who’s being crazy, mate. After everything you’ve done for all of us? This is the least we could do.”

“We even compromised,” adds Hermione. “We didn’t really get you any presents or anything, but we do have a couple of things planned, which is why we’ve started so early.”

“But I—”

“Really, Harry, the day will be so much nicer if you just let us do some nice things for you,” she finishes, her tone implying that the conversation is over.

Harry lets out a huff of laughter, shaking his head.

Ginny rolls her eyes, grabbing his arm and pulling him into the next room, away from everyone.

“Would you stop being so thick?”

He frowns at her. “What do you mean?”

“You know _exactly_ what I mean, Harry. My mum and your best friends put this wonderful day together, and you’re standing there giving them a hard time.”

He splutters for a second. “No, I—it’s just, they didn’t have to do all this just for me.”

“ _Just_ for you? Do you even know who you are?”

“I mean, I don’t want to sound ungrateful, but it’s all just so much…”

She sighs, her face softening. “Of course you don’t. I’m sorry. But Harry, to be blunt with you, most of us have been worried for the last five years that you… that you wouldn’t make it this far,” she says grimly. “Every year was another year that you managed to do it, and now this is like the beginning of not having to worry about that ever again.”

He stares at her, not sure how to feel about this information. “Oh,” he breathes.

She chuckles and rolls her eyes. “You see now? And you’re right, we didn’t _have_ to do this at all. We did it because we wanted to.” She hugs him, then steps back. “Now stop being a git and go enjoy your damn birthday.”

He smiles. “Thanks, Ginny.”

She grins back and pats him on the shoulder, returning to the kitchen.

Harry takes a minute to relax, surprised to find tears forming in his eyes. He blinks them away, laughing at himself for being ridiculous, then follows Ginny.

All eyes are on him, expressions slightly tense and curious. After a second, he smiles and says “Well, let’s eat, then!”

 

Once he accepts that all attention is going to be on him all day, he finds that he does rather enjoy it. He can’t remember the last time he was in the spotlight and it wasn’t about being ‘The Boy Who Lived’ or ‘The Chosen One,’ the last time people celebrated him for being just Harry, and nothing more.

Breakfast is delicious and spirits are high all around for the first time in a long time. An ineffable weight has been hanging above the Burrow for months now, its inhabitants tiptoeing around the pain they all share. There would be time, eventually, to reopen that wound and let it heal properly, but the quick cover-up is what they need now just to get through. Harry’s been itching to get out of the house and _go_ somewhere, but he’d been instructed by the Ministry and—in his opinion, more importantly—Mr. Weasley, that it might be best for him to lie low for a while. As great as his thirst to escape is, nothing really takes precedence over his desire to avoid unnecessary and excessive praise.

Of course, he’d argued with Ron and Hermione countless times over just how unnecessary this hypothetical praise would be, but as far as Harry’s concerned, the only thing he’s done is his duty in the grand scheme of things. The words of the prophecy that still sometimes drift through his dreams had been kept well-hidden from the public, so only a select few know that it was always _only_ him who could’ve vanquished the darkness permanently. He was hoping he’d be able to have some semblance of normality in his life post-war, but as Hermione once pointed out, he’s landed himself firmly in the middle of one of Professor Binns’ History of Magic lessons. Voldemort was perhaps the most evil wizard in history, and to be the one to defeat him…

“Harry? Are you alright?” Hermione asks quietly, trying not to draw too much attention away from the story Ron is telling to everyone. He blinks, realizing he’d been staring down at his plate.

He nods, cutting a sausage in half and popping it into his mouth. “I was just thinking,” he murmurs back.

“Anything you need to talk about?”

“Actually, yeah. Later, though. All three of us.”

She gives him a soft smile and nods, turning her gaze back toward an animated Ron. Harry tries to focus in on the story, but finds his mind wandering again in the gleeful din.

 

“So, what did Ginny say to you earlier?” Ron asks, badly masking the intrigue in his voice.

Harry shrugs as they walk through the overgrown grass toward the broomshed. “She just told me I was being an ass and made me realize that I’m lucky to have you lot.”

“Oh. So it wasn’t, like…”

“Like what?” Harry asks, a little defensively.

“Well,” Ron starts carefully, pulling open the wooden door. “The two of you sort of had something going on at one point, and I was wondering—”

“No,” Harry says, cutting him off, “it wasn’t like that.”

“Oh,” Ron repeats. “I mean, it would be fine if it was! I mean, I didn’t have a problem with it then, really, and now… I don’t know mate, life’s too short, you know? So don’t let me stand in the way of you shagging Ginny if that’s what you want.”

“Excellent news, let me just go let her know that it’s on, then!” he fires back, not bothering to cover the irritation in his voice.

“A-ha! So that _is_ what’s happening!”

Harry rolls his eyes, grabbing his broom. “I wasn’t lying to you, Ron. I just don’t see her that way anymore. She’s like my sister.”

Ron eyes him suspiciously, closing the door behind them. “If you say so…”

“I do say so.”

Harry can’t really explain it himself. Something had shifted in him. He’s not sure when it started, but looking back on his relationship with Ginny, it just feels so out of place. Even thinking about Cho doesn’t make his heart jump the way it used to, the way it did even after the weird falling out they’d had.

“Well, if that ever changes—”

“Could you just shut up and get the ball so we can start? You’ve forgotten it,” Harry snaps, not wanting to spend any more time on the subject. He mellows out his voice as he continues. “It’s my birthday, remember?”

Ron grumbles something about ‘being just as confusing as a girl’ as he begrudgingly trots back over to the broomshed, returning with a tattered Quaffle.

Harry and Ron both let out a soft cry as George Apparates right next to them, grinning. “About to get started, are we?” George is perhaps the most noticeably changed out of the members of the family; his previous tendency for mischief and chaos has diminished considerably, flattening out into a more stony, sarcastic manner. The store in Diagon Alley has been closed all summer, though he’s mentioned on a few occasions that he does plan to get back to it eventually.

“I risk sounding like mum when I say it, but do you _really_ have to Apparate everywhere still? You passed ages ago, give it a damn rest.”

The sentence has barely left Ron’s lips before there’s another crack, causing Harry and Ron to flinch again. Ginny smiles, looking up at George. “Yeah, Georgie, it’s my turn to make these two wet their pants every twenty minutes.”

Harry laughs as Ron chucks the Quaffle at her head; she catches it and rolls her eyes, tossing it lazily to George.

“Why can’t you two be more like Hermione? See, here she comes now. _Walking_ , like a sane person might.”

“Who’s sane?” she asks as she joins them, one eyebrow quirked slightly.

“According to Ron, you are. Can we just get started already? George and I have been dying to kick your asses since last time.”

“ _Last time,_ ” Ron argues, “Harry had a cold and kept sneezing every time I passed him the ball.”

Ginny snorts. “The sneezing thing happened one time. The rest, he just dropped.”

Harry nods, patting Ron on the shoulder. “Don’t know why you insist on playing my partner every time, we both know I don’t do well with a Quaffle.”

“So, shall we play first to fifty points, then switch off so we all get a chance to play?”

“That won’t be necessary,” Ron says, looking over at Hermione. “We’ve decided that as a gift to Harry, Hermione won’t be playing.”

“Alright, that’s a little harsh,” Ginny says as Harry nods, narrowing his eyes at Ron for being tactless.

Hermione simply laughs. “Please, you all know I’m absolutely rubbish on a broom. I’ll just slow down your fun.”

“Hermione—”

“Harry, really, I don’t mind! I have a new book I wanted to start anyway,” she says, holding up her hand to reveal a book clutched in it.

“Well, that’s settled, then!” George cuts in impatiently. “Now can we fly already?”

 

Harry and Ron lose again. Twice. The first match is an absolute shutout; Ginny and George are just better Chasers than them. To his surprise, Harry doesn’t drop the Quaffle at all today, but getting the ball through the shabby hoops is where he runs into problems. Ron, however, drops the ball multiple times, always returning to the sky red in the face and mumbling apologies to Harry. Harry finds that he truly doesn’t care one bit, and just feels happy to be on his broom. More than once, while zipping around, taking turns as tight as he can, he hears Ron’s voice shouting at him to remind him that they’re in the middle of a game, to which he returns with a bit of reluctance.

The second match Ron scores twice and gets a little too overconfident, completely blowing the rest of his chances to do so. They start a third match, but it comes to an abrupt halt when Ron and Harry collide in the air, both thrown from their brooms. There’s a shriek from below as Hermione whips out her wand, catching them both with well-timed cushioning charms.

“And we had that last match, we did,” Ron grumbles as he all but throws his broom back into the shed, the Quaffle violently following it. Harry chuckles to himself.

“It’s really not that big a deal Ron, I don’t mind losing.”

“Well _I_ do! As if Ginny’s head needed to get any bigger…”

Harry just laughs again and shakes his head, giving Ron a firm pat on the back before joining Hermione in the grass, protected by the shade of a gnarly tree.

“Good save, by the way,” he says as he sits, grinning at her.

She returns a half smile, eyes flitting up to his from her book. “You’re just lucky I was here,” she says, not looking up, her smile betraying her indifferent tone.

“What time is it anyway?” Ron asks as he slumps down next to him, stretching out onto his back. “Reckon I could eat a whole ham about now.”

Hermione rolls her eyes, still not looking up from the book. “It’s almost noon. We can have something to eat before we, er…” She does look up now. “Well, before the next part of your surprise, Harry.”

He groans, following Ron’s lead and laying back, his arms behind his head. “I think I’ve had enough surprises for a lifetime, honestly.”

“But these are nice surprises!” she says, her tone pleading with him just slightly.

He sighs. “Alright, I’ll play along.”

 

* * *

 

“So you want me to put on a _blindfold_ and you’re just going to Apparate us somewhere?” Harry asks, holding the cloth in his hands.

“Don’t you trust us?” Hermione asks, tapping her foot impatiently.

“Of course I do, you know that, I just—”

“Then on with it!”

He looks between them one last time, shaking his head as he ties it around his face.

“And good luck trying to peek, mate. She’s bewitched it.”

Harry frowns, trying to pull it up so he can peer down at his feet, but sure enough it won’t budge. He then tries undoing his own knot, but it stays in place. “This is cruel,” he mutters, letting his hands come to rest at his sides.

“Ready?” comes Hermione’s voice from next to him as her arm loops into his.

“No.”

Ron’s arm does the same on his left side and he sighs.

“Here we go then!”

There’s the familiar pressure, like being squeezed through a tube, folded up and shoved through a mail slot, and then a pop and the feeling of feet on ground once more.

“Right, can you get this off my face now?” Harry asks almost immediately, the two arms in his tightening their grip slightly.

“Don’t be impatient, there’s just a short walk—”

“We have to _walk_ somewhere?”

He feels Hermione swat his shoulder. “Yes, you’ll see.” Ron laughs through his nose as they start forward, Harry listening to his own breathing and the sound of quiet footsteps on stone as they go. He’s desperately listening around him for clues, his heart pounding as they guide him. They make a few turns, the silence around them a bit disconcerting. Finally, they come to a stop.

“Alright, we’ve made it,” Hermione says, a little breathlessly. “Blindfold’s coming off now.”

Harry winces as the cloth is removed and light hits his face, causing him to blink rapidly. Once he’s adjusted, his heart stops.

They’re standing in front of his old home in Godric’s Hollow.


	2. letters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> POV: Harry

Harry feels his throat tighten slightly, trying to swallow down a lump. “What are we doing here?” he asks quietly. He takes a few steps forward, unable to look at his friends.

“I _told_ you this was a bad idea, Hermione,” Ron whispers to her. She takes a step toward Harry, cautiously laying a hand on his shoulder.

“Well, I figured last time we were here, you didn’t get to see—to _properly_ see—where you were born and where…”

Harry nods once, praying neither of them sees the tear that drips from his chin.

“Oh, Harry,” Hermione all but whispers, now teary herself. “You’re upset.”

He doesn’t respond because it’s quite the contrary; he’s trying to find the words to thank them for thinking of this.

“I’m so sorry, Ron was right, we should just go back—”

“No!” he says, a little louder than he’d meant. She pulls her hand away. “No,” he repeats, more quietly. “It’s just not what I was expecting, that’s all.”

And then there’s another pang of emotion, of gratitude that his friends understand him enough to know that one of the most comforting things for him is the potential for closure. An opportunity to cut himself deep, right to his heart, finally a clean cut that might be able to heal. His eyes are fixed on the sign that had suddenly appeared, a sign he had read once before:

_On this spot, on the night of 31 October 1981,_

_Lily and James Potter lost their lives._

_Their son, Harry, remains the only wizard_

_ever to have survived the Killing Curse._

_This house, invisible to Muggles, has been left_

_in its ruined state as a monument to the Potters_

_and as a reminder of the violence_

_that tore apart their family._

Harry finds that the words affect him now just as much, if not more. He also smiles slightly to himself when he realizes the sign might be updated to mention he’s now technically survived the Curse _twice_. Although the semantics of that might not be worth the inquiry.

“I want to go inside,” he finally murmurs, still squinting slightly in the summer sunlight. He can see where his bedroom must have been by the gaping hole in the side of the cottage. He pushes the gate open, the hinges stiff. He assumes that nobody has entered since Voldemort himself, all those years ago. There’s an ominous feeling hanging over him and he almost jumps as there’s a sudden movement from behind him. Ron had made to follow him, but Hermione held out her arm to stop him. She glares at Ron, then gives Harry an encouraging nod.

He crosses the lawn, tall, green grass tickling his ankles, grown clean over the stones leading up to the door. His hand is on the knob and he turns back toward the street, seeing both Ron and Hermione talking to each other fervently. He takes a deep breath and turns back around, twisting the knob as he does.

The knob doesn’t budge at first, then there’s a sudden warmth in his hand and it swings open on its own, allowing him entry.

The first thing Harry notices is the smell. It isn’t a bad one, nor an obviously good one. He almost wishes it were familiar to him, wishes he’d had the opportunity to experience the sensation of returning from school after being away for the term and being reminded of what his own home smells like. He’s surprised to find that there’s no accumulation of dust or dirt; perhaps the house is protected by enchantments to keep it perpetually the _exact_ way it had been left.

He runs his hand along the wall as he takes slow steps, taking everything in. There are a few picture frames sitting on the mantle, most of them of just their little family. He closes his eyes, imagining the house when it was still full of life. A crackling fire, his father encouraging baby Harry to commit some kind of mischief, his mother lovingly scolding both of them. He even dares to think about those three lives growing together, aging. It’s something he spends more time fantasizing about than he’d ever admit, but being in the very place where it would’ve happened is almost too much for him to handle.

In fact, he finds himself sitting on the couch, his vision swimming. Tears hit the floor and disappear, sinking right into the rug beneath him. He hears a faint tinkling noise, like windchimes, as if the house is acknowledging his presence.

He finally stands up, shuffling through the other rooms on the first floor, more visions of a hypothetical life washing over him. He isn’t sure where, but somewhere very close by is where his father had taken his last breath.

It’s with trepidation he eventually climbs the stairs, every inch of his body trembling. Even though there’s nothing here to fear anymore, the shadow of past events looms menacingly. He half expects his scar to start burning, a sensation he only remembers the ghost of. The familiar prickling never comes.

He reaches the top, facing a gaping hole. His room had been right at the top of the stairs.

Harry forces himself to move forward, gripping the door frame as he peers into what’s left of the room. Even if he had survived the Curse itself, it feels like a miracle he also survived the apparently explosive aftermath. Of course, now he knows the full implications of that night and understands that it was no miracle that kept him alive, but a fraction of the very soul that tried to smother his own.

The cheerful beams of sun coming in through the gap seem to taunt him, reminding him that this room is familiar territory for them. They don’t care that his mother was destroyed mere feet from where he’s standing. They just shine forward until they physically can’t anymore, as is their nature.

He’s not sure how much time lapses while he stands in the mouth of this beast, this demon of a memory that’s plagued his dreams since a Dementor coaxed it out of his subconscious on the Hogwarts Express. Finally, he takes a shaky breath and turns around, not bothering to look at the rest of the upstairs. There would be time for that, eventually, he thinks.

For now, he hastens down to the first floor and back toward the door, pausing when he remembers the pictures he’d seen earlier. Surely it’s not stealing if they technically belong to him?

The house seems to agree. He goes to grab the first picture and finds it stuck hard to mantle, but the same tingle of warmth then spreads through his hand and he finds he can pick it up normally. He lays his hands on the other frames, one by one, cradling them as he makes his way back outside.

“ _Harry_!” Hermione cries as the door swings open. He cries out, almost dropping one of the pictures. She jumps up from where she’d been sitting on the front lawn, running up to him. Ron quickly joins him.

“Sorry I took so long,” he says, trying to fight the redness rising in his face.

“What the bloody hell were you doing in there all that time?” Ron asks, clearly more than a bit irritated.

“I—what do you mean? I couldn’t have been more than twenty minutes?”

Ron and Hermione exchange a look, then turn back to him.

“Harry, you were gone a few hours,” Hermione says carefully, trying not to sound too concerned.

“That’s impossible,” he says, shaking his head and pushing past them, still carefully holding the pictures. “If I really was that long, why didn’t you come to get me?”

“We _tried_ , but the door wouldn’t open for us!” Hermione cries, following him out the gate. “There are some seriously powerful enchantments around this house, Harry, some even I couldn’t figure out.”

“We reckoned we were safer on the property so no Muggles would see or hear us. Blimey, Harry, we were even calling your name for a good ten minutes at one point. There’s that big bloody hole in the side so we figured you might hear us.”

He shakes his head, stopping in the middle of the street. “It really was that long?”

Hermione nods, exasperated.

“I’m sorry,” he says, looking down at the road beneath him. Sure enough, he realizes just how long the shadows around him have become. “I didn’t realize…”

“Of course you didn’t. We’re not mad, Harry, we were just worried.”

Harry looks back up, finally meeting Hermione’s eyes properly for the first time since they’d arrived. He then looks at Ron, his face scrunched in worry. “Thanks, you two,” he says, feeling embarrassed. He’s grateful they haven’t mentioned the stack of frames in his arms. “I think I needed this. It sort of feels like I’ve really said goodbye, now.”

Hermione nods, her eyes glistening in the evening sun. Ron gives him a pat on the shoulder and grins.

“So, what now?” Harry asks, suddenly full of energy and ready for another surprise.

“Oh, well… We were planning to go to Diagon Alley and just walk around for a bit,” Hermione says, extracting Harry’s Invisibility Cloak from one of her pockets.

“Hey, how did you get that?”

Hermione giggles. “You don’t really put your things away, it wasn’t difficult. Anyway, as you’ve mentioned, one of your biggest worries about going out into the Wizarding World is all the attention, which is why I brought it. But this weird time pocket has sort of spoiled that plan. We were supposed to be back at the Burrow by now; I’m sure Mrs. Weasley is worried that we aren’t yet.”

Harry nods, slightly disappointed. “I suppose we should just go right home, then.”

“There’s always next year,” Ron says, Harry and Hermione both laughing. “What?”

“I’m hoping you don’t think Harry’s birthday next year is the next time we’ll be in Diagon Alley.”

“Well that’s the question, innit?”

Harry nods. “I actually wanted to talk to you two about that.”

“Alright, well let’s at least show Mrs. Weasley that we haven’t died first,” Hermione says, taking Harry’s arm again as they Apparate back home.

 

* * *

 

“Can I help with anything at all, Mrs. Weasley?” Harry asks from his spot at the table. She waves him off, shaking her head.

“Don’t be ridiculous, dear, you shouldn’t have to cook your own birthday dinner.”

“Are you sure? I feel bad you’re going to all this trouble—ah!” he cries as she endearingly swats his head.

“It’s no trouble at all, Harry, please!”

He sighs in relief when the door to the kitchen bangs open, revealing a very grumpy looking Ron and a pleased Hermione. Both of them are dripping wet and carrying wet paper bags full of groceries. They’d also refused to let him help with their trip to the store, though he suspects that also had something to do with wanting to discuss what had happened that afternoon.

“It looks like the rain is letting up, but I don’t think it’ll be finished by dinner,” Hermione says brightly, placing the groceries on the counter next to the stove. Pots and dishes are already whizzing through the air, starting to prepare the food.

“It seems Hermione and I have very different ideas of ‘letting up,’” Ron grumbles, sitting down next to Harry. He yelps when his mother also smacks him.

“Ronald Weasley you are _soaking wet_ , get out of my kitchen and dry yourself off! Honestly, I thought I raised you kids better than this,” she says to herself, going back to the stove.

He groans and stands, following Hermione out of the room.

“Harry, why don’t you go with them? I’ll at least let you help by giving me some more room to work!”

Harry nods and follows them, Ron grumbling all the way up the stairs as Hermione hums to herself. Before they enter Ron’s room, Hermione casts a quick drying charm on herself and Ron, who forces the door open and flops onto his bed. Hermione just sighs and sits on the floor, crossing her legs and leaning against Harry’s legs as he sits down at the edge of his own bed.

“So what is it that you wanted to talk about, Harry?” Hermione asks, turning over her shoulder.

“Oh. Erm. Well, we were talking about Diagon Alley earlier and when we might go back there, and I’ve just been thinking a lot about...the future.”

“Yeah. Me too,” she says quietly, picking at one of her nails as she looks down.

“How do you mean?” Ron asks.

“Well, I mean, everything is sort of in free-fall right now, isn’t it? We still have no word on Hogwarts and what’s happening to it. What if it doesn’t reopen?”

Hermione shakes her head. “That’s impossible. Even if not this year, then surely the next.”

“Alright, but what if it _is_ next year? What the hell are we supposed to do until then? Not that I don’t love spending time with you lot here,” he adds quickly when he sees Ron about to protest, “but we can’t just stay here and do nothing for the rest of our lives!”

Hermione and Ron both stare at him for a second. Hermione sighs.

“Harry’s right. I’ve been feeling a bit restless myself lately. After all those years leading up to our seventh, we’re suddenly sort of just...stuck.”

Ron shrugs. “I wouldn’t mind being given some kind of...pardon, or something.”

“I’m sorry?” Hermione asks, her tone on the brink of offended.

“Well, we defeated the bloody Dark Lord, didn’t we? What else could we possibly learn?”

Hermione scoffs. “First of all, Ronald, _Harry_ defeated Voldemort, not us.”

“Well, we helped!”

He looks to Harry, who nods earnestly.

“So we’re pretty much covered in terms of knowledge, wouldn’t you say?”

She blinks at him. “I really question why I spend so much time with you sometimes. Even if you _could_ count everything we’ve been through, most of it applies almost exclusively to Defense Against the Dark Arts or Charms. What about Transfiguration? Potions? Herbology?”

“What about them?”

“Well, who’s going to hire you if you haven’t passed your N.E.W.T.s for those subjects?”

He opens his mouth to respond, then closes it. He then points at Harry. “You really think anybody would turn him down a job?”

“Well it’s not like I just want a free ride,” Harry fires back, slightly hurt.

“Exactly!” says Hermione proudly. “Even though...I do think Ron is technically right, you could walk in anywhere right now and they’d hire you on the spot. But I also think there’s a lot of merit in earning it the old fashioned way. But come on, after everything we did? How bad could one more year at Hogwarts really be?”

Harry hums in agreement. “And it would at least give us another year to figure some things out.”

“Like what?” Ron says, earning him another eye roll from Hermione.

“Like our _careers_ , maybe?”

“I thought that was figured out, though!” Ron looks down, suddenly interested in something on the ground. “I was...sort of under the impression that we were all going to be Aurors together,” he mumbles, his face going red.

Hermione looks back at Harry, who holds his hands up in a sort of half shrug. She gives him a look as if to say ‘ _do something!_ ’

“Listen, Ron,” Harry starts, also avoiding eye contact. “I know that a while back that’s what we talked about but...I’m not so sure about the whole Auror thing anymore.”

“Well why not?!” Ron asks, his eyes coming back up. Harry is surprised to hear anger in his voice. “Obviously you’re good enough at it, and I always thought—” He stops abruptly, the redness increasing as he looks away. “I always thought we might be partners.”

Harry looks down at Hermione, whose facial expression is a strange mix of concern and offense. “But Ron, you do understand where he’s coming from, don’t you?”

“Not really,” he pouts.

“Well,” Harry starts, “I feel like I’ve had quite enough action and close encounters to last me a lifetime, you know? Being an Auror is dangerous work, and after seeing what happened to…” he trails off, suddenly choked up. Hermione reaches back and squeezes his leg gently.

“So what did you have in mind, then?” Ron asks, the anger returning.

“I—I don’t _know_ yet, that’s what I’m worried about! That’s why I really feel like we should finish things out at Hogwarts, do something properly for once. Maybe we’ll finally have a year where nobody tries to kill us at any point,” he adds. Hermione giggles and Ron’s expression softens slightly.

“I suppose another year wouldn’t hurt,” he admits.

Hermione nods. “And this way, you can focus on the things you’ll need to be an Auror! You’ll have a much better chance at a job if you’re technically qualified for it.”

“And what about you, then?” he asks, his tone gentle now.

Hermione pauses. “I hadn’t really given it much thought.”

“I find that hard to believe,” Harry jokes, nudging her slightly with his leg. She turns around and gives him a light smack.

“No, really! I’ve been so busy worrying about Hogwarts that I didn’t really think past it.”

Ron snorts. “But you’ve thought about it in the past! Year five you nearly drove yourself mental over it.”

“Yes, but as Harry pointed out, things have changed since our fifth year, Ron.”

A silence then hangs between them, the space suddenly full of their shared thoughts. The room haunted by change. Faces flash past in Harry’s mind, their vacant eyes making his heart seize up. Images he can’t blink away, ones that are burned into the folds of his brain, ones that still cause him to wake up drenched in sweat, unable to breathe.

“Well anyway, I’m sure we’ll be hearing soon either way,” Hermione finally concludes, her voice gently subduing Harry’s turmoil and bringing him back to the present. He nods, relieved to be on the same page about the future. _Well, more or less_ , he thinks, looking over at Ron, who’s still pouting like a child whose toy has been taken away.

There’s a knock at the door and Ginny enters before anybody answers. She glances between the three of them, looking confused.

“Have we received bad news? You all look like someone’s…” she trails off, all four of them cringing at her slip. “Shit, I didn’t mean—”

“We were talking about Hogwarts,” Harry says, cutting her off and saving her. “About whether or not it would reopen this term.”

She frowns. “Of course it will,” she says with certainty, again looking back and forth between the others.

“But how can you be sure?” Hermione asks.

Ginny shrugs. “It can’t just _not_ open. Seems pretty straightforward to me?”

Harry quirks an eyebrow and huffs through his nose.

“Well, anyway, mum’s sent me up to tell you dinner’s almost ready, so you should wash up and come downstairs.” And with that, she’s gone again, the door swinging shut behind her.

“She seems in a weird mood,” Ron remarks, sliding off his bed.

Hermione sighs. “Well I suppose today can’t be easy for her. All this attention on Harry?”

Harry frowns. “Why should she care?”

“Isn’t it obvious?”

Harry and Ron look at each other then back at Hermione, shaking their heads.

“She still has feelings for you, Harry.”

“So there _is_ something going on!” Ron says accusingly.

“No, there is _not_!” Harry responds before turning back to Hermione. “I’ll have you know, Ginny and I had a perfectly mature conversation about how we feel about each other over a month ago, and we agreed that there wasn’t really anything there anymore.”

“Has it occurred to you that maybe she wasn’t completely truthful?”

He scratches his head. “Er, no, but why would she lie?”

“I’m just guessing here, but did you tell her how you were feeling before she got to tell you?”

“Well, yeah…”

“Alright, so she saw that you had moved on and decided that it was better not to fight it and accept that things weren’t going to be the way they were before.”

“But it’s not my fault if she’s hiding things from me!”

Hermione shakes her head. “I never said anything about it being your fault, Harry. Just understand that she’s probably going through a lot.”

Harry thinks back to the moment they’d had earlier that morning, the way she so fiercely called him out for his behavior, but in a way that was clearly not malicious. A few casual touches that he’d just interpreted as minor acts of comfort.

“Well, what do I do?” He’s aware of Ron’s eyes blazing through the side of his head, wondering Harry’s next move just as much.

“For now, nothing. Ginny’s not an idiot, and—no offense—but there’s no way you would’ve worked all that out on your own. Plus, I’d rather not get involved in all of this, honestly.”

“And you’re _sure_ you don’t feel that way about her? Because—”

“Fuck, Ron, why do you care so much about how I feel about your sister?!” Harry cries, bringing his hands to his temples.

Ron scowls, sitting back down on his bed. “I don’t know. I’d rather it be you than some slimy bloke who I don’t know.”

“Ron’s weird focus on your relationship aside,” Hermione says, narrowing her eyes at him in disbelief, “unfortunately I think your best option is to wait for it to blow over. Now can we go downstairs? I haven’t eaten since breakfast,” she says, breezing out of the room.

Harry looks at Ron, who grumbles something about being down in a minute and follows after Hermione.

 

Harry is grateful to wake up the following morning knowing it’s just another day, though reflecting on his birthday gives him an even deeper appreciation for the Weasleys and Hermione. Dinner had been just as momentous as breakfast, the table loaded with all of Harry’s favorite foods. Though Hermione said they hadn’t any presents for him, Harry was almost moved to tears when presented with a small box containing a golden Snitch.

“We pulled some strings with McGonagall,” Mrs. Weasley had explained. “Hogwarts keeps every Snitch caught during Quidditch games, and this one was caught by your father,” she said, beaming.

The Snitch’s wings had unfolded in his hands to his surprise. “But...he played Chaser. I don’t understand.”

“Apparently there was one game where Gryffindor’s Seeker got injured mid-game,” Ron had jumped in excitedly, “and the team was about to forfeit. But of course, he couldn’t let them lose—they were playing Slytherin if you’ll believe it— and there was some rule back then that said you could continue playing as long as every role was filled somehow. So he _technically_ played as a Chaser, but he also caught that Snitch and won them the game!”

Harry holds it in his hands now, still laying in bed and listening to the birds calling in the morning. It’s odd, being able to sleep with windows open again, no longer afraid that even a small crack in the defense could crumble the entire Order. He allows the Snitch to buzz around his head lazily, grabbing it and setting it free again every so often, careful not to damage the winds. He’d always known his father was good at Quidditch, but he himself couldn’t imagine playing two positions in one game.

Then there was the issue of the Snitch’s flesh memory, which somehow Harry seemed to bypass. Perhaps McGonagall is somehow responsible for that, but he imagines it would take no less than an expert Snitch maker to tinker with something as permanent and complicated as that. Either way, it feels like another connection back to his past, one that echoes a remarkable Quidditch feat and fills Harry with a sense of pride and determination.

 

Breakfast that day is almost as eventful as Harry’s birthday breakfast. It starts normally, the Burrow’s inhabitants shuffling into the kitchen one at a time at their leisure, eyes still heavy and hair mussed from sleep.

Things take an exciting turn when Hermione lets out a shriek, causing Harry to drop half a piece of toast into a glass of orange juice. She jumps out of her chair and runs to the window, pointing at the sky.

“Look! Owls! Four of them!” Harry, Ron, and Ginny join her. Sure enough, there are four sets of flapping wings heading in their direction. Unable to wait, they sprint outside to the backyard, the dew of the grass soaking through Harry’s socks as he catches a letter addressed to him. They all tear them open with fumbling hands, the world moving in slow motion as they each read.

 

> _Dear Mr. Potter,_
> 
> _It is with great pleasure that I am able to send this letter to inform you that Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry will open as normal for the term beginning September the 1st. We are pleased this year to welcome 8th year students who have yet to complete their Hogwarts education and wish to return at this time. The staff has made some general changes in the curriculum to cater to more specific needs and provide support to those who need it._  
>  _It bears mentioning that the castle is still under construction in some places, which generally will be off-limits to students and will be discussed in full during the Welcome Feast. There will be some temporary compromises to be made in terms of sleeping quarters and common rooms, but I trust that given recent events, we will be able to put aside petty House rivalries and learn to coexist and rebuild our school together._ _  
> _ _As always, you will find a list of required books and equipment, as well as any other information that becomes relevant in the time between writing and sending these letters. It is more important now than ever that we receive a response from each student planning to attend posthaste, and I look forward to seeing young faces breathing life into our castle once again._
> 
> _Yours sincerely,_ _  
> _ _Minerva McGonagall_ _  
> _ _Headmistress_

Harry forces himself to slow down and really read the letter, taking in every bit of information. He’s scanning it again when he realizes there are other pieces of parchment behind the one he’s reading and quickly flips to the next, which he instantly recognizes as the list of books and things they’ll need. Intrigued to find that there are two more pieces of paper, he slips that one in the back of his stack and begins the next one.

 

> _UPDATE_
> 
> _This term, we will be welcoming a number of students from Beauxbatons Academy of Magic to live and study at our castle for a currently undetermined length of time. Logistics of lodging and schedules will be sorted out on the 1st. Please welcome them as family and treat them with the same respect, if not more, that you do your fellow Hogwarts students._
> 
> _Minerva McGonagall_ _  
> _ _Headmistress_

Harry scrunches up his face, wondering why they’ll be coming to Hogwarts, but too curious about the final piece of paper to think about it just yet. He slides the Beauxbatons notice to the back of the pile and reads the final letter.

 

> _Dear Mr. Potter,_
> 
> _I hope you’ll forgive me for the informality of this letter. Though I trust and hope that returning to Hogwarts is already your plan, I must admit that it’s crossed my mind that you might choose not to. As your Head of House, I do urge you against this. In fact, the staff—myself included—were hoping you’d take the position of our first ever 8th Year Head Boy. You have a certain propensity for uncharted territory, and I think a good number of people would feel more secure and at peace knowing that you have an impactful presence on the grounds. We can, of course, discuss this further in person should you have any questions, and I don’t expect that the decision will be an easy one. However, I feel you are uniquely and specifically suited for this role, if that helps any. In addition, it may interest you to know that Miss Luna Lovegood has been selected as Head Girl._ _  
> _ _Have a good rest of your summer holidays, and send Ms. Granger and Mr. Weasley a hello from me. I hope to see you at Hogwarts in September. And thank you, Harry._
> 
> _Warmly,_ _  
> _ _Minerva McGonagall_ _  
> _ _Headmistress_

This letter stuns him, his eyes rushing back and forth between ‘8th Year Head Boy,’ ‘uniquely and specifically suited,’ and ‘thank you, Harry.’ He reads and rereads the letter a few more times, tuning in vaguely to the muttering around him. Mrs. Weasley had joined them at some point as he hears her say something about writing Bill and Fleur to tell them about Beauxbatons, and Ron worrying about what kind of living quarters compromises might have to be made.

He suddenly feels Hermione’s eyes on him, probably wondering what he could possibly be reading still.

“Is everything alright, Harry?”

Harry looks up at the four of them, suddenly aware of the cold moisture settling into his socks from the lawn. He swallows hard, shrugging.

“Yeah, um. Fine. She’s...McGonagall’s asked if I’ll be Head Boy,” he says, suddenly feeling guilty. It had been Ron and Hermione who had been made Prefects during their fifth year, and he wonders if that position might’ve gone to Ron had Harry not just saved the entire Wizarding world. He remembers just how mad he’d been when he found out he wasn’t made a Prefect himself, and now Head Boy is right in front of him and it just feels wrong. There’s a brief silence, one of mixed emotion and treading lightly. Harry grimaces when Hermione gives him a weak smile and he looks down. “Luna’s been chosen as Head Girl,” he mutters, the guilt doubling.

“Oh, that’s brilliant!” says Ginny. “About time she got the recognition she deserves.”

Harry looks up again and Hermione is grinning, nodding her head in agreement. He exhales deeply, feeling every muscle relax. Of course she’s not mad, how could she be? Harry himself is just glad Hogwarts is opening again at all.

“She says hi to you two, by the way,” Harry adds, raising the letter again to confirm that she had, in fact, included such a casual greeting. Though, McGonagall always did seem to have a soft spot for the trio, even before they defeated the Dark Lord. Ron and Hermione give each other a slightly puzzled look but both chuckle.

“Harry, this is fantastic news!” Mrs. Weasley suddenly exclaims, a little incredulously. “Why don’t you seem more excited?”

He shrugs. “I think I’m just...processing. I’m not sure if I want that kind of responsibility just yet.”

“If not now, then when, mate? Head Boy is in your blood, both of your parents—”

“I know,” Harry says, cutting him off. “They were Head Boy and Girl, I know. But that was different, it was still just normal old Hogwarts back then. You read the letter, things are going to be really different this year. Maybe forever.”

Hermione places a hand on his shoulder. “Who says that’s a bad thing? It was inevitable that things would change now that _he’s_ gone.”

“I was just sort of hoping to fade into the crowd a bit more this year,” Harry sighs. Ron snorts, shaking his head.

“Do you honestly think that was _ever_ an option?”

Harry chuckles in spite of himself. “No, I suppose not.”

“I think you should take it,” Hermione says gently, folding up her own letters and slipping them back into the envelope.

Harry looks down at his letter again. “I just need to mull it over a bit,” he says, indicating that he’s through talking about it for now.

“Oh, Harry, your socks!” Mrs. Weasley cries, shooing him forcefully back toward the house. “Take those off before you go inside, I don’t need you tracking mud through my kitchen!”

The rest of breakfast is full of excited chatter, the four students-again babbling on about what it might be like to live alongside students from Beauxbatons, in closer quarters than they had been during the Triwizard Tournament. Ron has already latched onto the idea that they’d surely be forced to room with some Slytherins (“What other House rivalry is as notable or petty?”), earning him a chastising from Hermione, who points out that one of McGonagall’s main points is that now more than ever the Houses need to come together.

“Well, I suppose even if we do have to do some sharing, we probably won’t have to deal with the likes of Malfoy, eh? It would be pretty bloody stupid to show up at Hogwarts after everything that family did…”

Hermione wrinkles her nose. “I agree that the Malfoys have overall been unforgivably slimy and evil, but...I don’t know.”

“You don’t _know_? Don’t tell me you think he deserves the same shot everybody else has?!”

Hermione sighs, clearly regretting bringing up anything contrary to Ron’s unconditional Malfoy hate. “I’m just saying that everybody deserves a second chance, _yes_ , even Malfoy.”

Ron groans. “Just the idea of someone walking around the halls with that damn mark on his arm…”

“But look at Snape! It _sort of_ turned out that he was trying to do some good,” Hermione retorts. “I just wonder if we know the whole story,” she concludes, returning to her food. Ron looks at Harry, bewildered.

Harry finds that he truly could not care less. He’s just glad to feel like things might be normal again very soon.

 

* * *

 

That is, until a month later when they’re standing on Platform Nine and Three Quarters, Ron and Ginny trying to pacify a near hysterical Mrs. Weasley. The Hogwarts Express sits gloriously in front of them, its dark smoke already billowing upward. Despite all of the bustle, Harry manages to accidentally make eye contact with the very person they’d assumed would not be coming back.

He waits for the familiar sneer, already preparing to roll his eyes in return, when a soft smile almost knocks him off his feet. He frowns, blinking and making sure he’s seeing things correctly, and then suddenly Malfoy is on the train, out of sight. Hermione gives him a weird look but he just shakes his head, silently telling her that there’s nothing to worry about.

Harry approaches their little group again to take his turn assuring Mrs. Weasley that they’ll finally have a calm year and that they’ll write often, but he can’t help but glance over his shoulder a few times toward where Malfoy had stepped onto the scarlet locomotive, his gentle grin still playing in Harry’s mind. He thought things might start to feel normal again soon, but he realizes now that this is only the beginning of the truly abnormal.


	3. begin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> POV: Draco

Draco can’t help but chuckle to himself as he steps onto the train, Potter’s dumbfounded expression replaying in his brain. He hadn’t _sought out_ his gaze, really, it was just by pure luck that their eyes had met across the station. Three years prior, there would’ve been a glaring tournament with no discernible winner. And only one year ago…

He figures that Potter had been expecting the same old. A classic Draco smirk, with a perfectly practiced amount of disgust and patronization. But that wasn’t his intention, and he’d ventured something more understated. Cordial, even. The innocent bystander might just assume they were vaguely acquainted classmates, and it was in the subtlety that Draco hit his mark.

For reasons inexplicable, he had felt a surprising lack of bone-deep loathing upon seeing the messy head of dark hair across the platform. Alright, so maybe the reasons were perfectly explicable. But as he shuffles into the throng of people buzzing with excitement, he finds he’d really rather think about other things. Besides, his arm is suddenly being abducted into the grip of another, startling him. He looks to his right and sees Pansy Parkinson looking at him, clearly amused at his brief fright.

“Hello, Draco. Miss me?”

He rolls his eyes. That classic Draco stank face suddenly feels appealing again.

“Yes, Pansy, loads.”

“There’s a Slytherin compartment down near the end,” she says, ignoring his response.

He raises an eyebrow, retrieving his arm from her grasp. “What do you mean? Have they banished the whole house to one little compartment?”

Pansy sighs. “No, Draco. We...”

“Oh,” he breathes, his chest tightening. He nods once and tries to play off the shock. “You’re saying that all of the Slytherins who are coming back fit in one compartment.”

“Right. Returners that we know of, anyway. Everybody sort of lost touch over the summer.”

Draco swallows the accusation in her voice, guilt rising to replace it.

“It’s been rather odd, not hearing from _anyone_ , you know?”

“Can we just cut the passive-aggressive routine, Pansy? If you knew at all what my summer was like—”

“I’d know what your summer was like if you’d responded to my letters.”

He scoffs. “Since when were you this needy?”

“I am _not_ ,” she insists, scandalized. “I only wrote you twice, and it was very clear after being ignored the second time that you weren’t interested in talking to me anymore.”

“We’re talking right now.”

“Clearly you’ve had a change of heart.”

“ _Or_ , like I’ve already said, my summer was a rather difficult one, and responding to letters was not high on my list of priorities.

“Arse,” she grumbles as they enter one of the last compartments on the train. Draco’s heart drops again when he sees the remnants of the Slytherin house.

Blaise Zabini is the only person Draco knows, aside from Pansy. There’s a vaguely familiar blonde girl—a fourth year, he thinks— who gives him a bland look when he enters then goes back to staring out the window at the station wall. A very nervous looking younger boy who can’t be any older than a second year, sitting with a girl equal in anxiety but greater in age. They must be siblings, because they have the same complexion, as well as the same eyes and hair color.

Draco nods politely to the other three before sitting next to Blaise, dreading any more conversation that includes inquiries about his summer. It had been absolute hell, and reliving it is so far off his to-do list it’s basically someone else’s job. To his relief, Blaise makes almost no effort to indicate he’s noticed Draco’s presence, instead focusing on very new looking book.

He already feels trapped in the compartment. The train hasn’t even started moving yet.

Draco finds it unfair that this is a familiar feeling, as he’d been hoping to come back to Hogwarts in order to _escape_ feeling like a Grindylow in a tank. The silence is also torture. Only him and his mother had inhabited the Manor all summer, and there was a sort of deafening quality to how stagnant things were there, especially in contrast to…

“I’m Joetta, by the way. Joetta Winslow,” the older girl says suddenly. “And this is my brother, David.”

“So, this is really all of us, is it?” the bored looking blonde girl asks, eyes still glazed over and pointed out the glass. The train’s started moving, finally. “Pamela Dorsey,” she adds.

“Supposedly, yes,” Pansy says, matching the blonde’s dull tone.

She sighs dramatically. “Looks like Hogwarts is about to become a three House school, then.”

Pansy scoffs. “Why would you even say that? The six of us are here, aren’t we? They won’t just wipe Slytherin off the map.”

The blonde girl continues to stare out the window, the world around them suddenly green. “It just doesn’t make sense to keep the fourth House around. I reckon we’ll have to be re-sorted,” she says, seemingly unphased.

Pansy scoffs again, louder this time. “Do you have _any_ pride at all?”

“How could I?” the girl fires back, annoyance creeping into her inflection. “After all of the bullshit Slytherin House has caused for Hogwarts, I’d sooner go sleep with the Gryffindors.”

Pansy looks at Draco, appalled. “Can you believe this girl?” she hisses.

Draco clears his throat. “We still need to wait for first years to get sorted,” he says to her evenly.

“Do you really think anybody wants to be in this bloody House after we basically left everyone else to fight the Dark Lord without us? They’re not just going to forgive and forget, I’ll tell you that.”

Draco swallows hard. Of course nobody wants to be in Slytherin. He’s already thought about it, about how exposed the returning Slytherins would be this year. Though he certainly hadn’t anticipated the number being quite this thin. It feels like treading in open water, sharks gathering around an open wound. Would the overall anti-Slytherin attitude actually prevent anybody from being sorted in? What if it is a dying House?

Pansy glances back and forth between them, clearly waiting for Draco to respond. When he doesn’t, she finally closes her mouth and settles for shaking her head incredulously.

If he’s honest, he’s not really sure himself how he feels about his House status. It affiliates him with such vile people, even though the bulk of the evil is either past or simply elsewhere.

Right. There it is again, the panic that’s been gently nipping at his nerves for three months, the overwhelming, crushing feeling that closes in from all sides without warning.

He jumps as the compartment door slides open. A stray Slytherin?

“Erm. Are you lot doing alright in here?”

The six of them stare at Harry Potter as he awkwardly half-leans into the compartment, clearly thrown off by the sight of its occupants.

“Fine, thank you,” responds Joetta, looking down at the floor. Draco notices a badge hanging from Harry’s robes and realizes it says ‘Head Boy.’ He feels surprisingly lukewarm about it, but he can tell Pansy’s noticed, too, by the not-so-quiet snort from behind him.

“Right, well… If you need anything, come find me. I’ve been told I’m acting Prefect for Slytherin until a few things are sorted out.”

Draco does cringe at this, already awaiting the reactions. There’s surprisingly nothing verbal, but Pansy makes a sort of half-choking noise and Blaise looks up from his book for the first time since Draco entered the compartment. And then the door is closed, and Pansy Parkinson explodes.

“BLOODY ACTING PREFECT? IS THIS SOME KIND OF JOKE?!”

Everybody looks at her, eyes wide, startled by the sudden change in volume. Pansy looks nearly manic, eyes flitting between her fellow Slytherins.

“DON’T ANY OF YOU CARE THAT HARRY POTTER HAS BEEN PLACED IN CHARGE OF US?!”

More staring as she breathes heavily, face red.

“Well, he did save the entire wizarding world just a few months ago,” Joetta supplies quietly, making sure not to meet Pansy’s glare. “It makes me feel sort of...safe...knowing he’s around.”

Draco’s heart drops, because this was definitely _not_ the right thing to say. Pansy somehow goes even redder as she grinds her teeth, and Draco can tell she’s contemplating risking expulsion as her fingers curl around her wand in her robes.

“I’m going for a walk,” she finally says, her hands still balled in fists as she stomps out of the compartment, slamming the door shut behind her.

Blaise sighs. “You do get used to it, eventually,” he says to the three strangers, sounding bored as he returns to his book.

Draco exhales, smoothing his hand over his hair habitually. It’s grown far too long for his liking, but the last time he’d tried to cut it himself was a disaster, and he felt silly going to his mother as a grown man to ask if she could cut his hair. And going out into public was simply _not_ an option unless it was absolutely imperative. Even going out into areas with more heavily Muggle populations was enough to fry his nerves for a few days, maybe a week. So he’d spent the majority of the summer months confined to the Manor, feeling bored when he wasn’t chewing his usually pristine fingernails down to jagged stubs or trying to catch at least an hour of sleep a night.

Because, despite the war being over, Draco hasn’t known peace since his father disappeared.

It didn’t take Lucius long; it had been only a few days after the Malfoys returned to their home and recreated some semblance of order that Draco had awaken to his mother’s cries from downstairs. He still hears them sometimes, bouncing throughout the halls of the Manor and chilling his blood. While the Minister had given Draco a full pardon due to his age (and likely, Draco thinks, because the Ministry remains unaware of the full extent of his previous involvement with the Death Eaters), Lucius must have realized that he wouldn’t be given quite the same treatment. Flight apparently was the best option. Bravery had always been more of a Gryffindor trait, anyway. Good riddance.

The aspect of his father’s disappearance that makes it so gut-twisting is the secrecy of it all. The Ministry had, in fact, come in search of Lucius shortly after his hasty departure. Not feeling much loyalty to him after making some realizations and having time to reflect on the past few years, Draco had cooperated as much as he could, giving the Aurors all the information he had. He’d even volunteered to do it under Veritaserum.

Once they’d gone, the wait began. And it still hasn’t ended. The Ministry has kept Lucius’ whereabouts being unknown quite the secret, mostly in defense of Draco and Narcissa. Being related to one of the Dark Lord’s right hand men already meant that most of the wizarding world hated them, even after the war, but knowing that he’s out in the world and slipping through the hand of justice could lead to absolute mutiny. Draco’s already suffered enough by the hand of his father, and it seems cruelly appropriate that what might be his last relevant act would be one that brings the remaining Malfoys so much pain.

“Potter’s Head Boy,” Blaise remarks plainly, a twinge of something sharp in his voice.

Draco hums, nodding. Truthfully, he’s not sure what to think about it. Of course, it makes a lot of sense; on the other hand, _of course_ Harry Potter, the Savior, is Head Boy. Again, he wonders if he might have had a reaction similar to Pansy’s had the past been the present, but after everything he’s been through, he finds he can’t be bothered to exert the energy necessary for outright hatred. Annoyance? Sure. Jealousy, even.

It’s not much of a surprise that Slytherin is left Prefect-less, either. The options are him, Blaise, Pansy, and this Joetta girl (at least Draco _thinks_ she’s a fifth year), all of whom had either been on the wrong side of the fight or not in it at all. Besides, there wouldn’t be much use for having even one Prefect with only six people total in the bloody House.

Pansy returns eventually, looking more placid but still ruffled. She makes a point to sit as far away from Draco as she can when she enters the compartment. He simply quirks an eyebrow at her and chuckles through his nose, wondering how she can possibly be so childish. The ride is painfully quiet, save for the occasional frantic whispering between Joetta and David.

About halfway in, Draco realizes he still needs to change into his robes, so he gathers what he needs and leaves the compartment quietly. He’s only just exited when someone barrels into him, nearly knocking him over and sending the items in his hands flying.

“Shit, I’m sorry,” says a familiar voice, and when Draco regains his footing and turns around, he sees Potter gathering up Draco’s things from the floor.

“Sorry about that, here you go,” he says awkwardly, holding the clothes at arm’s length. His hair is messier than usual and he seems rather breathless.

“Not so easy being Head Boy, is it?” Draco asks, trying to keep his tone flat but polite.

Potter lets out a sort of half-laugh and shakes his head. Draco is surprised he isn’t reveling in his power, all this attention that’s on him.

“It’s been a bit of a disaster so far, really,” Potter admits, scratching the back of his head. “Luna and I have already broken up two fights.”

Draco raises an eyebrow. “Really? What could people possibly be fighting about?”

He shrugs. “We didn’t get there until things had escalated in both cases, so we didn’t get much backstory. It was less about words being exchanged than jinxes, but I think at least the first one was about Quidditch. During the second one a window broke and someone stunned someone else’s owl accidentally...” He trails off, giving Draco a weird look. It’s as if Potter’s suddenly realizing exactly who it is he’s ranting to. “Well, er, I better be off, then.” He asks it almost like a question.

Draco just nods and allows a fraction of a smile as Potter pushes past him, briefly frozen in place. He realizes that it’s the first conversation they’ve _ever_ had that was free of animosity, though he reckons it might just be because Potter had been so flustered. Draco wouldn’t blame him if he still hated him; after everything he’d done it actually felt a bit strange that Potter would be willing to talk to him at all.

When someone else pushes past him he remembers that he had actually left his compartment with a purpose and starts back down the train to change, his mind and body moving at different speeds down the train. It wasn’t a novel sensation, this detachment between mind and body. Like he’s physically there, but mentally he’s floating off somewhere, completely disconnected from the world around him. Which is why he’s surprised to find himself back at the Slytherin compartment, wearing the correct garments. As he opens the door, Pansy’s shrill voice snaps him back to reality.

“Are you bloody serious?! I would think you of all people would disapprove of something so crazy!” she’s shouting at Blaise, who looks less than thrilled.

Draco gives him a look, searching for an explanation.

“All I’m saying is that only people who’re Muggle-born would be naive enough to let themselves be sorted into Slytherin. And even then, the train ride is plenty of time for the other Houses to put ideas in their heads.”

“Accurate ideas,” Pamela grumbles.

“Regardless,” Blaise continues, “I’m just saying I care more about the continuation of our house then I do about something as trivial as blood status.”

Pansy stares at him, then turns to Draco. “And what do you think about all of this?”

 _Truthfully, not much_.

“I agree with Blaise. Your priorities these days are unfortunate, Pansy,” he says cooly as he sits down again. Pansy splutters for a second, trying to think of something to say, but Draco interrupts her. “In case you hadn’t noticed, the world has changed a lot over the last few months. You can either accept it, or be left behind. Your choice.” This shuts her up immediately, her cheeks going pink.

Blaise gives him a sort of half smile. “I reckon even if every first year gets sorted into Slytherin, we’ll still end up with more people from Beauxbatons at our table.”

Draco sighs. He’d forgotten about the Beauxbatons business. “Unfortunately, I think you might be right.”

 

And right Blaise is. There’s a certain tension in the Great Hall caused by the small cluster of Slytherins sitting at their table, joined by (to Draco’s surprise) three different first years, bringing the House total to nine. Draco attempts to ignore the pointed looks being tossed in their direction, but it does rather feel like being in a zoo enclosure. Once the headmistress makes sure the Sorting Hat finds a safe place, she turns to the room and addresses the buzzing crowd, holding her hands up for silence.

Once the room is silent, she pauses. You can hear a house-elf’s footstep in the tense silence, until McGonagall’s face breaks out into a grin.

“Welcome back to Hogwarts,” she says, exhaling in relief as the entire Hall erupts into applause. Even Draco finds himself clapping. Every member of the staff is beaming, and Draco feels something strange rise in his chest. Nostalgia, maybe? Happiness? McGonagall allows the celebration to continue for a few moments, then extends her arms once more.

“As you all know, we have a fair amount of Beauxbatons students who will be joining us for some time, and they’ll be arriving shortly along with their headmistress Madame Maxime, whom some of you may remember from their stay here during the Triwizard Tournament. We will be splitting these students up between the three dormitories.”

Pansy gives a gasp, looking between Blaise and Draco frantically.

“Our Slytherins,” McGonagall continues, directing her speech toward their table, “will be spending some time in Ravenclaw Tower, as the dungeons are currently in disarray and are not suitable for living. I assure that things will be sorted out soon, but in the meantime I’m sure we can all learn to get along.

“There are also some other areas of the castle that are still badly damaged and will be off limits. These are marked well and are also protected by enchantments, and I must ask that you respect this and attempt to find other ways to navigate until we can return the castle to her former glory.”

She pauses, pursing her lips slightly. “This will come as a disappointment to many of you, but we will not be competing for a House Cup this year.”

There’s a mild uproar—from the Gryffindor table, especially, Draco notices—which McGonagall quashes with a terse look and another raise of her arms.

“It pains me to do so, but as I’m sure you’ve all noticed, not every House is fully capable of shouldering the competition.”

All eyes shoot to the Slytherin table again.

“Of course, this also means that the Quidditch Cup will not be a reality this year. However—” she says sharply before another riot can commence, “we will still have a tournament of sorts. Madam Hooch will be posting a notice regarding the details by the end of the week. What I can tell you now is that House teams will not form this year. Instead, each team will be required to have members from at least three of our Houses.”

A confused murmur shoots through the Hall and she nods, addressing it. “All of this leads to what might be my most important point. With the students from Beauxbatons joining us and in light of the recent tragedies we’ve faced as a community, I would like to propose an emphasis on togetherness moving forward. Silly House rivalries and contention have taken us nowhere productive in the past, and I believe that now more than ever it is important to recognize the past in order to put it behind us.

“So, though you may feel like your own House is to be your family, I maintain that while we are here, we are _all_ family. Things will never be exactly the way they were, so I implore that you take this opportunity to embrace that change for the better.”

There are a few tentative claps, which eventually crescendo into a thunderous applause. The headmistress subtly wipes a tear from her cheek as the din fades and she continues.

“A few housekeeping notices! At the moment, we are short a Defense professor, but we’re working diligently to procure someone so that you don’t lose precious learning time.”

Pansy snorts. “Won’t be needing that class much now, will we? Now that the biggest perpetrator is gone?”

Draco shrugs, thinking of his father on the run from the law. _There are still plenty of bad people out there_ , he thinks, but McGonagall is still speaking so he keeps his mouth shut.

“All eighth year students will be required a meeting with their Head of House in order to ensure you are all on the right track to pass the necessary N.E.W.T.s and graduate without complication. For other students, courses will continue similarly to the way we’ve always conducted them, so no need to worry about that.

“Finally, we will be offering counseling services to any student who feels they might like to take advantage of that. If anybody is interested, I ask that they be in contact with me by means of letter and we can continue from that point. This service will be completely free and the schedule of sessions will be completely up to you. In addition, I can assure you that all of our staff members are here to support you in whatever ways we can. Hogwarts has gone through a horrible, horrible battle and while we admire your bravery, you still are young people and our future. We’d like to make sure that you’re each coping well with the recent events and this is our main priority, especially in the first few months back.”

Draco furrows his brow slightly, scratching his head. Although he’s not sure talking to some shrink would be the best investment of his time, he still wonders if it might be worth investigation. He recalls some dark moments from his summer when his thoughts suddenly felt like they weren’t his own, shuddering slightly.

One of the doors to the Great Hall bangs open and someone rushes up the center of the room—a male student, it seems—who stops to whisper something to McGonagall. All necks are craned, ears trying to pick up any information. He steps away and gives her an awkward half-bow and finds a seat at the Hufflepuff table.

“Our guests have arrived,” McGonagall says simply.

A sea of heads turns toward the doors as they swing open, revealing a small army of students in powder blue uniforms, looking almost excessively tidy. Madame Maxime towers behind them, smiling in a sort of tired way as they enter the Hall. They line up neatly in the centermost aisle, almost all of their heads pointed straight up at the ceiling, which looks exactly like the night sky.

“Ah, Minerva,” comes Maxime’s booming voice as she walks through a gap in the center of her students’ formation, holding her arms out. “I must thank you again for being so hospitable in this trying time. I am confident that our students will make the most of this experience.”

“I couldn’t agree more, Olympe,” McGonagall says. “Please, sit, sit! Make yourselves at home!”

Unsurprisingly, most of the Beauxbatons attendance takes residence at the Slytherin table, as there aren’t a great deal of vacant seats elsewhere. In the slight chaos, Draco notices an older looking boy—a bit short and lean, with blonde wavy hair—approaching McGonagall and starting an animated conversation, in which she points in the direction of the Gryffindor table. Intrigued, Draco follows her gesture and sees Potter and his friends speaking with one of the Beauxbatons girls. She looks vaguely familiar but Draco can’t put his finger on why.

The other boy Draco noticed is approaching Potter now, shaking his hand cheerfully. Potter’s gaze briefly travels in the direction of the Slytherin table and Draco looks away quickly. He doesn’t want to be caught staring.

“Alright, let’s all get settled in then, make sure you introduce yourself to your neighbor, good, good, there you go. Now!… Let the feast begin!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay between chapters! Things got a little hectic with the end of summer and the beginning of classes, but hopefully I can stay on top of things and update often-ish :)
> 
> Comments are highly appreciated and I'll always reply to pretty much everything so <3!!!


	4. nudge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay between updates, my semester started STRONG with the workload and my motivation has been a little shot, but here's a bit of a longer chapter to make up for it! Kudos and comments are much appreciated and also help motivate me a lot so please feel free to leave any thoughts you have! Enjoy <3
> 
> POV: Harry

“Please, sit, sit! Make yourselves at home!”

Harry smiles gently as a familiar face approaches the Gryffindor table, Gabrielle Delacour’s jubilant face framed by her silvery-blonde hair. He stands to greet her.

“Harry, it is so good to see you!” she says, her heavy French accent causing Harry to grin wider as she kisses both his cheeks.

“Hello, Gabrielle,” he says politely. She then turns to Ron and Hermione and greets both of them as well, slightly out of breath but clearly thrilled.

“Last time I was here was not under the most pleasant circumstances, so I’m very pleased to see your castle in a better light,” she explains, her head pointed skyward. “I see the ceiling accurately matches the stars of the night sky,” she continues, impressed.

“It’s one of the first things I noticed my first year!” Hermione replies. Gabrielle squeezes between her and Ron and the two girls start chatting about some of the constellations they can see.

Before Harry can even start to feel lost by their conversation, there’s suddenly another person in front of him. This boy is about a head shorter, his eyes sparkling amber and his blond hair somewhere between curly and floppy, endearingly messy.

“Sorry to bother you,” he says, his accent not as heavy as Gabrielle’s but still definitely French. “I’ve been chosen as the liaison for Beauxbatons during our time at Hogwarts, and your headmistress has informed me that you are...what did she call it? Head of the boys?”

Harry chuckles, sticking out his hand. “Head Boy, yeah, that’s me. Harry Potter,” he says, introducing himself.

The other boy also laughs as he shakes his hand. “I know who you are already, of course! I’m Leon Laurent, it is a pleasure.”

Leon’s hand is soft and his grip is firm, but inviting. He also hasn’t broken eye contact, but this feels different from the staring that Harry has grown so accustomed to, staring that’s only increased since the end of the war. It’s less amazed. Not starstruck, just...curious.

Ron clears his throat next to them and Harry suddenly remembers where they are, releasing his grip.

“Right! Leon, this is my best mate, Ron.”

Leon turns to Ron and beams at him, shaking his hand as well. “Ron Weasley! I have heard things about you; again, a pleasure to meet you.”

Harry snickers as Ron’s face goes slightly red, which nicely compliments the look of dopey pride that’s now growing. “You’ve heard about me?”

Leon nods. “Of course I have! And that must be Hermione Granger talking to Gabrielle?” he asks, gesturing to them. Harry nods, making to get her attention, but Leon stops him.

“That’s okay, I’m sure I will have time to meet her soon enough.”

“Right,” Harry says, grinning again. “So what do you mean by ‘liaison,’ exactly?”

“From what your headmistress has told me, my position is a very similar to yours, actually. I am in charge of making sure relations between our two magical bodies are going smoothly while we are here, as well as acting as a sort of authority figure for the younger students. We never really had a position like it until now.”

“So I reckon we’ll be seeing each other quite a bit, then?” Harry asks, confused as to why his cheeks suddenly feel warm.

Leon nods, smiling. “It seems that way. I’ll leave you for now to enjoy your meal, but if it’s not too much to ask, could we meet once the feast is over? I just have some things to ask and information to share.”

It’s not like Harry has any plans yet. “Sounds good to me. We can meet right by the doors, if that’s alright?”

“That’s perfect, thank you! It seems your table is rather full, so I think I’ll join that one over there,” he says, pointing over at the Slytherin table, which is already overcome by a mass of light blue. Harry notices Malfoy staring blankly into space, not acknowledging any of the action around him. _Of course he feels too self-important to socialize with the foreigners_ , Harry thinks.

“I’d be careful if I were you, mate,” Ron says, which earns him a quick jab in the ribs from Harry.

“Oh?” Leon says, his brows coming together in confusion.

Harry sighs. “Don’t worry about it. We just have some silly old rivalries with the Slytherins. They’re not really bad people, and I’m sure they’ll nice to you at the very least.” _Well, some of them, anyway_.

“If you say so,” Leon says playfully, turning to head in the direction of the more vacant table. “I look forward to our meeting, Harry.” Gabrielle notices him leaving and tags along, saying a quick goodbye to the Hermione and throwing Harry and Ron an infectious smile.

Harry realizes that his heart rate is a little bit faster than it should be given he’s been standing in the same place the entire time. His palms are clammy, face a little hot. _What the hell?_

He turns to Ron, trying to distract himself from his out-of-place bodily functions. “Really? After McGonagall just preached to us about House unity, you’re going to try to turn their Head Boy against Slytherin?”

Ron shrugs. “I’m just not convinced that they’re any less slimy than they were before the war, that’s all. He deserves to know!”

Harry rolls his eyes but returns to his seat, suddenly famished. It almost brings tears to his eyes when McGonagall says “Let the feast begin!” and all of the platters fill with piles of steaming food. He makes himself a full plate and sits back for a second before digging in.

“It’s been two years since the last time we did this,” Harry says, Hermione now facing them again.

“I know, right? Feels like I haven’t eaten in years,” Ron says, his mouth slightly full.

Harry laughs but shakes his head. “No, I meant the opening feast.”

Hermione hums and takes a sip of water. “Right, last year…”

“Last year was a shitshow,” comes Seamus Finnigan’s voice from Harry’s left. “We heard a lousy speech about assimilation and the importance of rule following, and Slytherin was the only table with food for the first ten minutes.”

Harry frowns, taking a bite of chicken. “What do you mean?”

“Supposedly there was some kind of error in the kitchen, but those house-elves know what they’re doing. We suspected it was...you know…the headmaster’s doing… Anyway, point is, you didn’t miss much.”

“We’re really glad to have you back, though!” Neville pipes up from the other side of the table. “Things felt so wrong without you three here.”

Ginny nods. “It’s like everything is how it’s supposed to be again.”

“Stop, you’ll make me cry!” Ron jokes, already making himself a second plate. Hermione kicks him under the table and he swears.

“She’s right, though! It does feel...” she pauses for a second, chasing a pea around her plate with a fork. “It just feels correct that we’re here, is all.”

Harry nods, unable to fight the grin that’s made its way onto his face. The rest of the feast passes with the usual mirth and comradery, and a feeling of freedom that Harry wasn’t sure he’d ever feel again. They poke fun at Neville when he realizes he’s wearing two different shoes, Hermione rolls her eyes every time Ron attempts to speak with food in his mouth, and Harry manages to avoid eye contact with Ginny the whole night.

“Why do you reckon the Beauxbatons lot are even here?” Ron asks as they wait for dessert, sitting back with his eyes mostly closed.

Hermione hums, face scrunched in thought. “I hadn’t really considered it. Though I feel like whatever the reason, we should know already, right? On account of Fleur being part of the family now,” Hermione explains in response to Ron’s confused look.

“Well, she hasn’t really been around much,” Ron says.

Harry exhales deeply, looking around the room, back toward the Slytherin table. He makes eye contact with Leon, who smiles gently and continues on with the conversation he’s having. Again, Harry feels something inside him flip upside down. It’s brief, but now that he’s more tuned in, he feels the closest comparison he has would be the adrenaline of battle. Fight or flight. Toned down by a hundred times, of course, but the same general lurching sensation. Is there something about this Leon guy that only his subconscious mind is picking up on? Surely he can’t be dangerous if Madame Maxime trusts him to be their liaison.

“Right, Harry?”

He snaps back to their own table, slightly disoriented. “Hm?” he asks, earning a some confused looks from his friends.

“I was just saying that I don’t give a rat’s arse about this tri-House Quidditch team rule. Surely McGonagall will allow us to get the Gryffindor team back together if you’re the one who asks, right?”

Harry shakes his head, laughing gently. “I’m sure she’s fairly serious about this rule, and that me of all people should be trying to follow it. Head Boy, remember?”

Ron frowns, the eager excitement on his face falling away. “I suppose,” he grumbles.

“What about this Defense professor rubbish?” Ginny asks. “Don’t you think they should’ve sorted that out before term started?”

“But the job’s cursed, remember?” Dean Thomas supplies.

“I bet not anymore, though! Now that old baldy’s croaked?”

This earns Ginny a collective laugh from the table, which is cut short by the sudden arrival of desserts on their table. Ron practically moans and Hermione gives him a funny look as he loads up his plate. Harry helps himself to some treacle tart and allows himself to soak in the pure mundanity of it all, of how strangely familiar and _normal_ it feels to sit and eat with his House and his friends like this, not afraid that someone, somewhere is plotting to kill him.

 

“I hope you’ve all had your fill to eat, as the feast is now coming to its conclusion,” comes McGonagall’s voice a short while later. “Again, I simply must say how appreciative I am that you’re all so willing to cooperate and be flexible as we continue to work some things out. Now, I’ll ask that our Prefects direct their Houses to your respective dormitories. Slytherins, if you would please follow Ravenclaw House. Guests from Beauxbatons, you will stay here in the Great Hall while we separate you off into the three living quarters.”

There’s a sudden buzzing around the Hall as people start to rise and shake off their food-induced drowsiness, led on only by the promise of a warm bed and the chance to sleep in. Harry suddenly realizes that he might be expected to escort the Gryffindors, but relaxes when he sees the two Gryffindor Prefects—William Ritter and Annabelle Kim—rounding up the first years and showing them the way.

Still, he feels that he could be doing _something_ to help, so he gives his friends a quick goodbye and starts to make his way against the throng toward the front of the Hall. He runs into Luna on the way, feeling instantly more comfortable knowing she had the same idea.

“How was your meal?” he asks as they fight the tide of bodies, his voice almost drowned out by the excited chatter.

“Not bad,” she responds, her mellow tone somehow perceptible even in the chaos. “Truthfully, I would’ve liked to sit with the Gryffindors.”

“Well McGonagall’s all about unity, so I’m sure there won’t be any scandals if you do from now on.”

She smiles softly. “Quite right.”

The two of them approach McGonagall, who is still standing behind the podium looking wistfully at the retreating student body.

“Hello,” Luna says casually. Harry fights a chuckle as McGonagall realises their presence.

“Oh, excellent! I was hoping to speak to you two at some point. I heard there were a few minor disturbances on the train?”

Harry nods, scratching the back of his head.

“Oh, yes, they were rather explosive,” Luna says, looking thoughtful. “I thought Harry handled them very well, though.”

He looks at her skeptically. “You were there, too!”

“I wasn’t much help,” she responds. She seems unbothered, though. “I’m not very good in emotional conflicts like those. Harry’s quick on his feet, you know?”

“Right, of course,” McGonagall says, distracted as she observes the exodus from the Hall. “No injuries, though?”

“Not that we know of,” Harry says, not sure if he should feel proud or just lucky that nobody had been hurt.

“Well, I suppose that’s all we can ask for,” she says, sighing. She’s clinging to the podium, her knuckles white. Harry grabs a chair from the closest table and puts it behind her, motioning for her to sit.

“Oh, thank you, Mister Potter,” she says, sighing as she sinks down into it.

“No worries. Er, so, we were just wondering what exactly you’d like us to do at this point,” Harry says.

McGonagall looks around, her eyes landing on the remaining crowd of Beauxbatons students. “I suppose you could hand out room assignments. Other than that, I’d rather the two of you got some rest. Potter, I assume Mister Laurent already spoke to you?”

He nods. “I’m supposed to be meeting him right after this, actually.”

“Already on top of things, I see. It’s good to have you on board. Both of you,” she adds, turning to Luna.

“Thank you for the opportunity,” she responds dreamily. “My father was so proud when I got the letter.”

They’re each given a piece of parchment, names scrawled into columns labelled with the Hogwarts Houses (minus Slytherin). Harry scans it, seeing that Gabrielle will be staying with the Gryffindors. A little further down in the same column, the only other familiar name also jumps out at him.

“Would you like me to handle this, Harry? So you can get along to your meeting?”

He shifts his weight, fumbling with the top corners of the sheet in his hands. “Did you want to come along? It wasn’t my intention to exclude you, I think Leon just didn’t know that there were two of us.”

“No, that’s alright,” she says, glancing over at the powder blue crowd to their right. “They seem nice. I’ve heard that Rollitockers are only ever found in parts of France, so I was hoping to see if they’re aware of any recent sightings.”

He scratches his head, trying not to crack a smile. “Er, right, then,” he says, handing his sheet to her. “I’ll see you,” he says, fighting the urge to ask what a “Rollitocker” is as he makes his way down the center of the hall, suddenly aware that there are dozens of pairs of eyes on him.

Leon is already standing next to the doors, smiling gently.

“Are you sure you don’t want to wait for another time?” Harry asks as he approaches. “I would hate for you to miss out on what’s basically your sorting into a Hogwarts House.”

Leon laughs, shaking his head. “It’s alright, Madame Maxime just informed me that I’ll be staying with the Gryffindors, so you can just show me the way once we’ve finished!”

“Oh,” Harry says, nodding. He gestures out the doors, suddenly self conscious. “Well, I suppose I could give you a bit of a tour, then?”

“That would be fantastic!”

Harry clears his throat, leading the way out of the Great Hall. Something about the castle walls resonates in his bones, as if they know that they’re home. Things are slightly different, a little worn and scarred, but it almost gives him a different kind of appreciation for the school. One informed more by pain than wonder, more overcoming than excitement of things to come.

Well, there’s that, and just looking at the way Leon wonders at things as they traverse some of the more important areas of the castle, Harry pointing out what he feels is important. He warns Leon about the moving staircases, explains that the dormitories are password-protected, and warns him about a few paintings he should avoid. Tells him about the various ghosts, how to get into the kitchens (“Are you suggesting already that I break rules?”), and which bathrooms to avoid. He almost gets ahead of himself and tells Leon about the Room of Requirement as they pass it, but bites his tongue and decides not to reveal all of his secrets.

Harry can’t help but feel a tad ashamed of himself for all of the years he’s taken Hogwarts for granted, every time he cursed the trick step on the staircase outside the Great Hall, all of the times he’s grumbled when he couldn’t find a classroom, even after years of navigation. There’s something about seeing Leon experience it for his first time that pulls upward at the corner of Harry’s mouth.

“This place...it’s amazing,” Leon says once they’ve finished most of the tour.

Harry grins and nods. “Yeah, it is. But I’m sure Beauxbatons is amazing, too!”

“Yes,” Leon says, pausing, “but in different ways, I suppose. Beauxbatons has a more modern, minimalistic beauty to it. But this castle… Well, I already know that recently it’s been through quite a lot, but I can just _feel_ the ancient magic coming out of the walls, you know?”

“I think I do,” Harry says, smiling at Leon as he stops for a moment to admire one of the suits of armor that line the halls. “Of course, I don’t expect you’ll be a master of getting around after just one tour. I still get lost sometimes.”

Leon smiles at him, his eyes twinkling. “I don’t blame you! There are so many twists and turns. And those moving staircases?” He laughs, shaking his head. “I can’t even imagine how easy it is to lose yourself here.”

 _Or find yourself_ , Harry thinks, internally grimacing at his own sentimentality. Still, despite all of the nostalgia, he again finds himself more interested in what the future holds. Though they’d joked about it earlier, he really is intrigued to find out what a “normal” year at Hogwarts might look like. At least, as normal as it can be given the circumstances and given who he is.

“So, I’m a bit curious,” Harry says as they start to walk again. “Why exactly are you here?”

His heart drops when he realizes that the implications of the question border on rudeness and quickly modifies his words.

“Not that I’m not thrilled to have you here! We’ve just been left a bit in the dark about the _why_ of it all,” he says quickly, watching as Leon bites his lip and stops again, turning to him.

“Beauxbatons is currently...in ruins.”

Harry also stops dead in his tracks, his eyebrows coming together in concern. “In ruins? What do you mean?”

Leon nods, looking down. “It happened around the same time as the battle here at Hogwarts, only a day or so beforehand. A large group of Death Eaters came and just...they destroyed _everything_ , Harry. The grounds, the school itself. People were hurt, people were _killed_. Some people they took and...we still don’t know where they are.”

Harry stares at him, gaping. “I-I don’t understand. Why haven’t I heard about this?”

“The whole community is rather quiet about it. Many are still in denial, especially those who have lost people. Most of us thought that we wouldn’t be able to finish our education up until a little over a month ago.”

Harry feels completely blindsided, unsure of what to do. He steps forward and places a tentative hand on Leon’s shoulder, slightly surprised when one of Leon’s rises to meet it.

“Do you know why?”

Leon shakes his head. “There were no warnings, no words. Just mindless violence. I have talked endlessly with Madame Maxime about it, and we believe it may have been an attempt to cover to Dark Lord’s back and make sure you wouldn’t be able to call on our aid when he attacked here. Or maybe he was trying to see if anybody was scared enough to come to his side.” He pauses, squeezing Harry’s hand slightly. “ _I_ think he just did it because...because he could,” he says, his voice heavy.

“What about Durmstrang?” Harry asks, trying to piece together any plausible reason.

Leon shrugs. “I haven’t heard anything, but they’re known for practicing a lot of dark magic, so I assume they were safe in all of this.”

There’s something on Leon’s face that Harry can’t quite read, something somehow even deeper than his school being leveled to the ground.

“Leon, I’m so sorry,” Harry says, his voice just above a whisper.

Leon looks up at him, his face suddenly shifting into one more optimistic. “There is nothing to be sorry for!” he says, his tone suddenly much brighter. “We have a team working tirelessly to restore Beauxbatons to her former beauty, and until that is finished we are here at Hogwarts! You have been nothing but welcoming, and I have to thank you.”

Harry smiles, giving Leon’s shoulder an affirming pat before removing his hand.

“I also want to thank you for, well, you know, everything…” Leon says, trailing off.

Harry blushes, so sure that they had passed that it wasn’t going to come up. Still, something about Leon’s hesitance to breach the subject is oddly reassuring.

“You don’t have to thank me, really,” Harry says, starting to walk again. “I did what I had to do. Almost anyone would’ve done the same thing in my position.”

“But they didn’t. _You_ did.”

Harry sighs. “Yes, I suppose you’re right.”

“I’m sorry I brought it up,” Leon says, his voice intensely apologetic suddenly.

“No, no, please don’t worry about it,” Harry says, looking at his concerned expression. “I appreciate that you—”

“I’m sure you get so many people crawling all over you these days, and I don’t want you to think that that’s who I am. Of course I’m grateful for what you’ve done, but I also realize that you’re just trying to get through your education like the rest of us. It must be overwhelming to constantly feel like you have to be on.”

Harry quirks an eyebrow and smiles slightly, impressed. “That’s exactly it, really. You just sort of…”

“Get it?” Leon asks, also softly smiling.

Harry nods. “Yeah. You get it.”

They’re suddenly outside the Gryffindor common room, Harry’s feet having taken him home by their own accord.

“Oh, are we here? I just realized I didn’t pay much attention to the correct way to come.”

Harry laughs quietly. “That’s alright, people will be willing to steer you in the right direction if you get lost. Do you know what room you’re in?”

Leon pulls a piece of paper out of his pocket. “It says here my room is the second from the top. Is that a good one?”

“Hmm. It depends how you look at it. More stairs to climb, but more privacy and peace. Are there other Beauxbatons students staying with you, then?”

“I think your headmistress provided me with a single room. Which is good and bad, I think!” he says, laughing. “I do like my privacy, but I am also used to living with other people and I worry that things will get lonely. What about your living quarters?”

Harry almost instinctively answers by listing out the names of his former roommates, then remembers that things are going to be a lot different this year for him, too.

“Because I’m Head Boy, I get the top room of the tower to myself.”

“You don’t seem pleased about this?”

He shrugs. “It’s just different. I’m sure I’ll grow to like it.”

“Surely you could move into another room if it turns out to be terrible!”

Harry smiles. “I hadn’t thought of it that way.”

“Ah, see, there’s _always_ a bright side to things! Even though our school is going through a tragedy, I got to come here and meet you.”

His honey-gold eyes feel like they’re boring right into Harry’s, a smile crinkling their corners. Harry can’t help but smile back.

“Yeah, I suppose you’re right.” He turns to the portrait of the Fat Lady, who has already fallen asleep. He clears his throat loudly and she wakes up, disgruntled, then bursts into tears as soon as she sees who disturbed her slumber. She blubbers for a minute about being eternally grateful to Harry for saving the castle, her only home, and then swings forward without asking for the password. Harry gestures for Leon to climb through the portrait hole and follows suit, shaking his head.

“Bloody hell, I’m sorry you had to see that. I reckon she’s been drinking on account of the welcome back feast and all.”

Leon waves a hand at him, chuckling. “This Fat Lady seems like quite the character, but I think I will like her.”

The common room is mostly empty, Harry yawns, realizing that it must be later than he’d thought.

“I think I am going to go get settled and try to get some sleep. Thank you so much for doing this, Harry. I really look forward to working with you,” Leon says, grasping Harry’s elbow and smiling. Something about the way he says Harry’s voice sends a chill up his spine, and he still wonders if there’s something about Leon that he should be aware of.

“Of course,” he responds. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight!”

Harry watches as Leon slowly makes his way up the staircase of the boys’ tower, still marvelling at his surroundings. He then collapses into an armchair next to the dying fire, his mouth dry and his eyes heavy. He makes a vain attempt to sift through all of his emotions, but gives up as his eyes start to fight their open status and trudges up the stairs himself.

He stops outside his old room, knowing his friends are asleep inside, then continues upward, resisting the magnetic force that beckons him back to the way things used to be.

 

* * *

 

Harry knocks on the door quietly, gasping as it swings open. “You wanted to see me, Professor?”

McGonagall is sitting in her office, writing something furiously. “Yes, Mister Potter. Please, come in, come in,” she says a little absentmindedly, waving a hand and shutting the door behind him as a chair slides to the other side of the desk. He approaches and sits down, hands in his lap.

“Professor, if this is about the Head Boy position, I just want to tell you that there’s nothing to worry about,” he says, anticipating the reason for his presence. “I know I seemed reluctant at first, but I really do appreciate the position and intend to uphold it to the best of my abilities.”

McGonagall looks up, slightly stunned. “Oh. Well, as a matter of fact, that’s _not_ what I called you here to discuss, but I’m glad to hear you’re feeling more sure of that.”

“Oh,” Harry echoes. “Er, right. Thank you.”

“But what I wanted to talk about is a bit more serious than that.”

Harry’s brow furrows and he sits up. “Is it bad?”

She shakes her head. “No, no, nothing bad.” She pauses. “There’s no easy way to ask this, so I’m just going to come out and say it. I’m interested in offering you the Defense Against the Dark Arts position.”

Harry stares at her, trying not to let his mouth fall open. He scrunches his eyes shut and opens them again, sure he hadn’t heard her correctly. “You’re interested in _what_?”

“Well, it’s come to my attention that you already have some experience in teaching this particular subject.”

“Do you mean Dumbledore’s Army? But that was just a silly little club—”

“A silly little club that saved the lives of many of your classmates, Potter.”

“But I’m still a student, surely I can’t also be teaching at the same time?”

“It won’t be a full-time position. Unfortunately we’ll have to bar the younger students from the class and focus specifically on fifth years and above. It doesn’t have to be the most unique and creative Defense class ever taught. You just need to cover what’s necessary for O.W.L.s and N.E.W.T.s. It would only be two classes a week, one for fifth and sixth years, and one for seventh and eighth.”

“Professor, with all due respect, I just don’t think I’m qualified for this.”

A glint of a smile flashes across her face, though a slightly frustrated one.

“I simply disagree.”

Harry scoffs, trying to wrap his head around the offer. “Look, just because I defeated—”

“It’s not just about that, and I think you’re well aware of it. You have all of the qualities that a good teacher needs. You’re patient, you’re resourceful, you care about people and their success, and you certainly have a natural sort of talent for this specific branch of magic.”

He bites at the inside of his cheek and looks down, sighing.

“If it helps at all, the reason I’m offering this position is because Miss Granger practically begged me to do so.”

His eyes snap back up to hers. “She did what?”

McGonagall nods. “Right after the feast, she came right here to this office and laid out a very logical argument for why it should be you. And no offense intended, Potter, but I do trust Granger’s academic judgment a bit more than yours.”

He sits back again, unable to argue with that. “And there’s _nobody_ else who can do it?”

She shakes her head. “Nobody else has come forward with any interest. We think that the community sees the subject as a bit irrelevant now that Voldemort is gone, but neither of us should be naive enough to believe that there aren’t any other perpetrators out there. As much as I would love things to be peaceful for a time, I would much rather prepare my students for every possibility.”

A silence lays itself on the table as Harry stares at his hands, a faint, white “I must not tell lies” staring back at him. He grimaces, thinking about how there could be others like Umbridge. She had no direct ties to Voldemort, and yet she still brought so much darkness into Hogwarts. Something Sirius once said rings out in his mind. _The world isn’t split into good people and Death Eaters._

“Tea?” McGonagall asks quietly, indicating the tray on her desk. He nods, thanking her as she hands him a cup and saucer.

“So, say I _were_ to accept the position. Wouldn’t I need to be approved by the Ministry first? And wouldn’t students need time to readjust their schedules?”

“Ministry approval is already handled. Shacklebolt himself has already approved your hypothetical involvement. I believe you and the Minister know each other fairly well?”

Harry nods, thinking about the days of the Order.

“I trust his judgement as well. And we’ve made sure to leave room in the schedules of students who might be interested in taking the class, so there’s nothing to worry about in that regard.”

It’s quiet again as he takes a sip of his tea, the steam fogging up his glasses for a moment.

“Again, strictly hypothetically, wouldn’t this conflict with my own class schedule?”

McGonagall sets her own tea down. “Well, that depends. What exactly is it that you want to do post-graduation?”

He smiles sadly and shakes his head. “I have no idea.”

“I know we’ve spoken about you becoming an Auror. Is that not something you’re interested in anymore?”

“I...I’m not sure. Do you still think I would do well there?”

“I do. I still believe you would be an excellent Auror. I just worry that your heart isn’t in it anymore, and I would rather you take some more time to figure things out then stick yourself in a profession you don’t want to pursue. Am I wrong to assume that?”

“No, I agree. So what do I do in terms of classes, then?”

“My suggestion is take what you would’ve taken if being an Auror were still your goal. There’s a lot of overlap for what most professions will want to see in terms of N.E.W.T.s, and if you decide you want to do something and you haven’t taken a necessary class, there are ways we can work around it. A lot of the eighth years are in the same position, so the Ministry has asked that employers be a bit more flexible as well.”

“Do I have to make a decision right now?”

“I can give you until Saturday, at the very latest. If you do choose to start, Monday will be your first day. I’ll also give you a week to get settled and run the class however you like, but then you’d need to start adhering to a Ministry-approved curriculum.”

He nods, finishing his tea and placing it on her desk.

“You seem...upset,” she says tentatively. “It’s alright to say no, if you truly don’t think you’re the right fit. But as your Head of House, and as someone who knows who you are and what you’re capable of, I personally think people have a lot to learn from you.”

“I’m sorry, it really is an honor to even be considered. I think I just need a bit of time to think it over.”

“I understand that times are confusing right now. I, myself, still wake up unsure of how to move forward sometimes. But the fact of the matter is that time waits for nobody, and it will keep marching forward whether or not we come with it. If you ever need to talk about anything—”

“Right, you’d mentioned during the feast that there are resources for us.”

“Yes, there’s that, but I also want you to feel comfortable coming to me specifically, should you desire.” She smiles gently and Harry can’t help but return it, rather liking this rare, softer side of Minerva McGonagall.

“I appreciate that,” he says, standing up. “Was there anything else you wanted to discuss?”

“No, you’re free to go. Please just inform me as soon as you make your decision, whatever it may be. Oh! One more thing,” she says and Harry stops in his tracks. “I do hope you’ll continue with Quidditch, even with the new structure.”

He laughs. “I’d like to see anybody stop me from playing Quidditch this year.” She gives him one last proud smile and returns to whatever she’d been writing when he arrived. Harry exits, closing the door behind him and exhaling. He has the sudden urge to scream and punch something, but he tables that feeling and starts his return to the Gryffindor common room, trying to ignore the murmuring in the halls he’s grow so accustomed to.

He finds Ron and Hermione talking on a couch and slumps down across from them, releasing a frustrated huff.

“Oh, hello Harry,” Hermione says, shifting to face him.

“All your Head Boy business sorted out?”

He leers at both of them. “I’m not thick, you know! Both of you already know what that meeting was about, _especially_ you,” he says, pointing at Hermione.

She smiles cautiously, nodding. “I know I went behind your back, but I really do think that you’re the best candidate for the position. You’re a great teacher, and people would _kill_ to have Harry Potter teaching them Defense Against the Dark Arts.”

“But didn’t you consider that I have my own education to complete still?”

She bites her lip. “Of course I did. But back when we still had the DA—”

“That was different, it wasn’t anything _official_. And we didn’t meet often, this would be twice a week.”

“Well if you think about it, one of those classes just replaces the Defense class that you’d be taking anyway,” Ron says thoughtfully. “So it’s really only like teaching one a week.”

“ _And_ it’s lower level concepts, so you won’t even need to do much prep. Harry, I think you might be overthinking this. You’re good at this. Didn’t you like leading the DA? Didn’t it feel good knowing you were arming your peers with skills they could actually use?”

“Skills they _did_ use,” Ron adds. “I’m with Hermione here, mate.”

Harry groans and throws his head back, his hands covering his eyes. “I just don’t know if I can commit to teaching for a whole year. I still have to figure out what I want to _do_ with my life.”

He glances up as Hermione and Ron exchange a look.

“All I’m saying is that you should seriously consider it,” Hermione finally murmurs. “You might get more out of it than you’d think.”

Harry nods, trying to rein in his stampeding emotions. He wants to be mad at them for pushing him to do this, but there’s a part of him that knows they’re right.

“When did you even have time to present this to McGonagall?” Harry asks.

“I went practically right after the feast finished,” she says, shrugging. “As soon as she said we didn’t have a Defense professor the idea popped into my head.”

“You didn’t think to run it by _me_ first?”

Ron frowns. “Alright, lay off her, Harry. She was only trying to help.”

“And besides,” Hermione grumbles, “by the time I’d decided I was going to do it, you’d already gone off with that boy from Beauxbatons.”

“Why are you making that sound like it was a problem?”

She shrugs again, crossing her arms. “I was just hoping we would get to spend our first night back together, all three of us.”

“You both knew that I would have things to take care of, though.”

“But we didn’t think you’d be gone all night. What could you have possibly been doing with him?” Ron asks.

Harry scoffs. “In case you’d forgotten, the castle is pretty big, so the tour took a bit of time. And Leon was telling me about why the Beauxbatons lot is here in the first place. Why do you suddenly have a problem with this guy?”

“I don’t!” Ron says defensively. “I’m just a bit pissed you chose to spend time with a stranger over your best friends.”

Harry can feel his temper rising, but would really rather avoid a row considering they’d only just returned. He stands suddenly, Hermione and Ron both gasping quietly.

“I’m going down to Hagrid’s,” he says evenly. “I just need to bounce ideas off him and blow off some steam.” He pauses. “We’ll have plenty of time to spend together,” he adds.

Hermione nods, standing herself. “I didn’t mean to make you mad, Harry. I thought you would _want_ the teaching position. And McGonagall assured me that she would give you an option to turn it down as well.”

Harry holds out his arms and Hermione hugs him. “S’okay,” he mumbles. “I’m just feeling a little overwhelmed. I don’t want to fight with either of you.”

“Good. I’m fresh out of fight at the moment,” Ron says, causing them all to laugh. “We agreed on Exploding Snap later, don’t forget,” he says as Harry and Hermione separate.

“I’ll be back in a couple hours,” Harry says, smiling. “Just have to run upstairs and change into something more comfortable.”

“Not sure why you insisted on wearing robes to meet McGonagall,” Ron snorts.

Harry smacks his arm. “I just wanted to show her that I was serious about things!”

“Alright, Mister Perfect Head Boy!” Ron calls after him as Harry starts up the spiral staircase, chuckling to himself. He almost cries out when he makes his way around the final round and finds Leon sitting outside his room.

“Oh! Hello, Leon,” he says awkwardly.

“Hello, Harry. Your friends don’t like me very much, do they?”

Harry sighs, caught off guard by the question. “Why don’t you come inside for a minute?”

 

* * *

 

“So you’re _sure_ they don’t hate me?” Leon asks, looking down at the floor as he sits on the edge of Harry’s bed.

Harry laughs through his nose, shaking his head. “I promise. We’re all just a bit...wary of new people, is all. They were more mad at me for not being home in time.”

“But that was my fault!”

“No, please don’t think like that. It was my decision to give you an in-depth tour, you had no control over that.”

Leon nods, finally looking up and smiling at Harry. “I’m sorry for eavesdropping,” he says. “I was going out to go for a walk, and then I heard you talking so I didn’t want to interrupt, but—”

“It’s alright,” Harry says. “We didn’t choose the most private place to talk, anyway.” He does feel bad that Leon overheard. What if he hadn’t brought it up to him? He would’ve gone on thinking Hermione and Ron didn’t like him. Maybe even thinking that Harry didn’t.

“I think you should take the job,” he says suddenly, not looking away.

Harry’s eyebrows go up. “You do?”

Leon nods. “I know I would sign up in a heartbeat. You make people feel safe.”

Harry smiles, his heart fluttering strangely. “Well, thank you. I still haven’t made a decision, but I’m definitely considering it.”

“Good,” Leon says, standing up. “I’m sorry for being so direct with you. My mother always tells me it’s my best and worst quality.”

Harry shrugs. “It’s okay. I’m just glad things got cleared up right away, I would hate for you to feel unliked your second day here.”

Leons nods, quiet for a second, just looking at Harry. “Thank you for inviting me in, Harry. I’ll let you go now.”

“Anytime,” Harry says, feeling a little breathless. There’s just something about this guy that makes Harry feel off. Leon exits his room and he slumps back onto his bed, trying to control his heightened pulse. All he knows is suddenly, this daunting decision doesn’t feel quite as difficult.


	5. instrument

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> POV: Draco
> 
> Our boy Draco goes through quite a rollercoaster in this chapter! He ends up in the right place, I think (or at least, the beginning of the right place), but I'd love to hear what you have to think about it! Comments are such motivators for me and I would love to discuss stuff with y'all as well! I don't think I've said this yet but this fic is also un-beta'd so I apologize in advance for silly little mistakes, I always edit and check but sometimes errors make it through anyway :,)
> 
> (Also: obligatory "sorry I haven't updated in a month" PSA. I wish I could promise that I'll update more frequently but it simply isn't realistic for me and the fact that I churned this out today is already a win so!! Please enjoy and again, I apologize for the eons in between chapters <3)

On Saturday—four days since the opening feast, and four days since Draco has so much as left his room—he finally decides to rejoin the land of the living. If anything, hunger is the driving force that lures him out of his cave; not even the constant (though silent) judgement from Blaise had initially been enough to do it. Aside from the condescending glances, however, Blaise has already proven himself a model roommate. Quiet, tidy, prone to routine, much like Draco himself. He figures that he sort of got the best of things when they were paired together, unlike Pansy, who is now stuck with that nasty Pamela girl from the train.

His mind wanders as his feet take him in the direction of the Great Hall, eyes too tired to fully register the looks of disdain that fly at him like arrows from every direction. Classes don’t start until Monday, so he hadn’t been counting on so many people being up and about this early on a Saturday morning. As he approaches his destination, his confusion grows at the sight of a large crowd forming just outside the large doors.

Draco takes a deep breath. He’d really prefer to avoid the entire fiasco and simply have some breakfast, but the commotion is too intriguing to pass by. His reputation suddenly becomes a useful tool; people quiet down and back away as he approaches, refusing eye contact with them and instead focusing on the piece of paper hanging on the wall just outside the Hall.

 

> _As of today (September 5), the Defense Against the Dark Arts teaching position will be semi-temporarily filled by Harry Potter. The course will be open to fifth years and older in preparation for either O.W.L.s or N.E.W.T.s. Enrollment requires a meeting with one’s Head of House for approval by Sunday, September 6. Spots are limited, but necessary accommodations will be made._

Draco stares at the notice, an oddly nostalgic feeling of mild contempt crawling up his spine. His body gives an involuntary shiver and he remembers that he’s inserted himself into the middle of a mildly rabid crowd, so he turns on his heel and pushes his way between bodies and into the Great Hall, his head down the whole way.

Sure, it makes sense. After what Potter had done, Draco can see why he might be a last resort to fill the position. Still, the knowledge that he’ll be acting not only as Head Boy and Slytherin Prefect, but _also_ as a literal Hogwarts Professor raises the temperature of Draco’s blood. Not by a lot, but enough that he’s huffing in annoyance by the time he deposits himself onto a bench at the Slytherin table, which is currently populated mostly by Beauxbatons students.

As if he weren’t frustrated enough, a loud, barking laugh comes from right outside the Hall and Pansy enters, her face red. She approaches the Slytherin table with malevolent mirth in her eyes. Draco sighs as she sits across from him, practically snorting with laughter.

“They’ve...they’ve made Potter a bloody _professor_ ,” she manages to say eventually, theatrically wiping a tear away from her heated face.

“So I noticed,” Draco says, trying to sound indifferent. For some reason, Pansy’s reaction has had a sort of instant reversing effect on him. Maybe it’s because he’s tired of her attitude and simply wants to contradict her whenever possible, but he finds himself with the sudden desire to defend Harry Potter. It’s meager, yes, but there, and that speaks volumes in its own right.

She frowns at him, her laughter fading. “Well it’s absolutely insane, isn’t it? He’s still a student, they can’t just go and let him teach classes! What kind of qualifications does he have? What training?”

Draco shrugs, not responding and instead scooping some scrambled eggs onto his plate. Now that he’s made it past the initial shock of the thing, something about the idea of learning from Potter...intrigues him. The habit of hatred for him is still in the process of being kicked, but upon further analysis Draco realizes that Potter’s appointment makes perfect sense. He had already done something similar back in their fifth year—he’d run a club that Draco and Pansy had actually had an active role in disbanding— and his history did seem to automatically qualify him for the Defense role. Plus, Draco had only seen a small fraction, he’s sure, of what Potter is capable of. He had spent months with his friends on their own, facing the Dark Lord with his armies and various traps and snares.

“Draco,” Pansy starts warningly, shaking her head, “don’t tell me you’re actually _thinking_ about it?”

He shrugs again.

“What the hell do you even need Defense for? Now that _he’s_ gone—”

“Shut up,” he snaps, his father briefly flashing through his mind. “Just. Shut up.”

Pansy splutters for a second, her face growing red again. “I have no idea who you even are anymore,” she eventually says. She rises, still looking at Draco, then finally scoffs and leaves, muttering to herself.

Draco takes a deep breath and allows the knot that had formed in his chest to unfurl. Novel emotions are not a rare occurrence these days. It doesn’t make them any less off-putting.

He’s barely started in on his food when a scrawny owl—the school’s, of course—nearly crashes into his plate. It hops up onto its feet next to the letter it’s dropped, blinking at Draco a few times before taking off again.

His name is written on the front in handwriting he doesn’t recognize; he narrows his eyes at the text as he puts his fork down, unsure of who would be writing him. He tears it open, his hands shaking slightly.

 

> _Mr. Malfoy,_ _  
> _ _I am glad to hear about your interest in the counseling services previously mentioned during our opening feast._

His eyes widen slightly and he looks frantically around him, clutching the letter closer and continuing.

 

> _As you’ll recall, the point of this service is for students to have an outlet and some emotional guidance after the turmoil our community has undergone. Your first session will be tomorrow morning, following breakfast. However, the further scheduling of appointments will be entirely up to you and can be as frequent or sparse as you like. I do hope you make the most of this. I am unable to disclose the names of other students who are partaking, but I can assure you that you are not alone in this therapeutic endeavor._
> 
> _Best,_
> 
> _Minerva McGonagall_ _  
> _ _Headmistress_

Draco folds the letter up and shoves it in his pocket, already feeling some regret about going through with sending the letter. He’d written it immediately following their first meal at Hogwarts, overcome with an odd and yearning desire for change. Now it feels more like a chore he has to complete.

Blaise sits down across from him, glancing over his shoulder at something. “Have you heard the news?”

Draco nods, allowing himself a small eye roll. He’s glad Blaise hasn’t brought up his brief stint as a shut-in. “Yes, I’ve heard about Potter and his bloody Defense class, Pansy practically—”

“No, not that,” Blaise says, cutting him off. “Someone was attacked last night,” he says.

Draco sniffs, unable to stop one eyebrow from quirking slightly in interest. “Attacked, you say?”

Blaise nods, his expression neutral. “Or so the rumors say. A first year, supposedly.”

“And what exactly are we basing this knowledge on?”

“Word of mouth,” Blaise responds hesitantly. “But according to that Pamela girl, one of the Hufflepuff girls confirmed that one of her bunkmates is missing.”

“Alright, so she’s missing. How does one jump from a lost first year to a student being attacked?”

Blaise shushes him. “Will you keep your voice down? I don’t know, I’m just telling you what I’ve been hearing. But there’s no sense in spreading it around, is there?”

Draco rolls his eyes, going back to his eggs. He’d never known Blaise to buy into paranoid conspiracies—especially one started by first years, of all people.

“I know it sounds ridiculous, but didn’t people think the same thing back in second year?”

Draco almost chokes on a piece of egg and coughs quietly, glaring at Blaise. “Didn’t we agree that _that_ is an off-limits topic?”

“All I’m saying is that stranger things have happened in this castle.”

Draco does notice that there seems to be a distinctly mellow tone hanging over the Hall, notices people talking in hushed tones and watching their backs.

“So...Potter’s been made a professor,” Blaise says after a pause.

Draco throws his fork down, groaning. “I swear to Merlin, if one more bloody person brings this up. I don’t really care that Potter’s a professor now! Good for him!”

“Well, thanks,” comes a voice from behind him. Draco’s skin nearly separates itself from his body and he whips around to see Potter standing behind him. Smiling?

“Come to gloat?” Draco says, almost on instinct. Potter’s little half smile melts away and he sighs, shaking his head.

“Quite truthfully, it’s all I’ve heard about all damn morning. I would love to avoid talking about it, if possible.”

Draco narrows his eyes slightly but nods. “Well, was there something you needed?”

“Oh, right. I was wondering if any of your lot—you know, the Slytherins—have heard any rumors about, erm, well, some kind of...attack on a student? Or, you know, anything like that?”

Blaise smiles triumphantly and Draco scowls, turning back to his plate.

“Now that you say it,” Blaise starts, “I _have_ heard some whisperings. Something about a rogue statue and someone being out of bed after hours?”

Potter groans, running a hand through his hair. “Bollocks. And I thought we’d made sure all of the possible leaks were covered.”

“Surely it’s not true!?” Draco spits, turning around again.

Potter hesitates, refusing eye contact. “I can offer no official comment at this time.”

Blaise gives a short huff of laughter and Draco rolls his eyes.

“Shit. Well, now that I’ve all but confirmed it, could the two of you just do your best to shut it down if you hear it from anyone else? McGonagall is still putting together an official statement, but it’s all quite a mess, really.”

They both eye him strangely.

He sighs again. “That wasn’t a no! I have things I need to do, but _please_ just do me this one favor. You wouldn’t want me abusing my Slytherin Prefect status, would you?”

Draco frowns. “Blackmail doesn’t really seem your style, Potter.”

“Just, _please_ ,” Potter repeats, not waiting for an answer before taking off toward the head of the Hall.

“He seems rather stressed for someone receiving so much special treatment,” Blaise remarks, serving himself some sausages.

Draco chuckles in agreement, not taking his eyes off Potter as he approaches McGonagall and says something to her subtly. “I suppose he’s just accustomed to privilege,” he responds halfheartedly.

 

* * *

 

He knocks on Slughorn’s door tepidly, already dreading what will inevitably be an awkward meeting with his Head of House. To top it off, he’d forgotten to write ahead to let Slughorn know he was coming.

“Just a minute,” comes a gruff voice from inside. Draco allows his hand to fall to his side and steps back slightly as the door swings open, revealing Slughorn in lime green, silken pajamas. Draco had waited until the afternoon to come see him, but apparently the older man preferred to take things slow on the weekends.

“Oh. Mister Malfoy. I wasn’t expecting you, was I?”

“No, professor, I apologize. Should I come back later?”

Slughorn pauses and looks over his shoulder, sighing. “No, no, I suppose now will do. Just give me a moment,” he says, closing the door. There’s a faint _poof_ and the door swings open, Slughorn suddenly in the robes Draco had initially been expecting. “Come in, come in,” he says, almost impatiently.

His office is rather cluttered, books and potion supplies strewn about. Slughorn waves a hand and a collection of empty (but dirty) bottles vacate the chair across from his desk, which Draco then sits in. Slughorn squashes down into his own chair; Draco notices he actually looks rather thin, comparatively. Tired.

“Believe it or not, you’re the only eighth year Slytherin who’s been to see me yet. Now, I know there are only a few of you, but I thought _surely_ at least Zabini would be more on top of things.”

Draco shrugs. “Perhaps he wants to take a more casual approach to our final year.” Highly unlikely, he knows. His actual guess is that Blaise simply isn’t fond of Slughorn and has been avoiding him.

“Well, anyway, might as well get right to it. Er...things going alright?” Slughorn asks, trying admirably to make eye contact and also have it not be weird. Failing, but making a valiant attempt, at least.

“Fine,” Draco says politely, not interested in small talk. Slughorn, luckily, is adept enough to pick up on this.

“Right then. Your _future_. Thoughts? You’ve always been rather skilled at potions, no?”

Draco nods, but says nothing.

“So, er, were you thinking of pursuing something in that field, then?”

“I hadn’t given it much thought, truthfully. I’ve been rather occupied lately,” he says drily.

Slughorn nods, patting his stomach and looking around. “Were you looking for advice then, or—”

“Truthfully, I only came to ask for approval to take Defense Against the Dark Arts.”

Slughorn’s eyes light up and he leans forward, suddenly more comfortable.

“Ah, of course! What an opportunity! To learn from the very vanquisher of the Dark Lord himself!” He suddenly frowns. “How exactly would that be relevant to a potions-based career, do you think?”

Draco stares at him. “Well,” he starts slowly, “I was under the impression that _you_ might be able to help me with that bit.”

Slughorn nods violently, pulling himself together. “Right, right, that would be the advisor’s job, right you are,” he says, mostly to himself. “I suppose,” he starts slowly, working it out as he speaks, “that it wouldn’t hurt to learn about certain dark magic or creatures in order to utilize their properties for potion making. Or perhaps to fight against these things?”

Draco raises an eyebrow. “Sounds right to me. Does that mean you’ll put me on the list?”

Slughorn twirls his mustache; Draco can tell he’s only pretending to think it over. He’d put anyone through. Far be it from him to deny someone the opportunity to learn from _the_ Harry Potter.

“I suppose there will be certain aspects of the class that will assist in some potions-related topics, so I can’t see why not! Lots of valuable life skills to learn from that one, too. Yes, yes, of course I’ll put you through. I believe the first class is Monday, we’ve left lots of open room in the eighth year schedules so I’m sure you’ll be able to make it. We can rearrange should you need to, other professors will be able to exhibit more flexibility, I’m sure.”

Draco sits in silence while Slughorn rambles, surprised at just how uncomfortable the man is. Draco’s eyes flit around the room to portraits of a few iterations of the Slug Club, a few with faces burned clean off the pictures. Like weeding a garden. Remove the brambles, distract with beauty.

Slughorn pauses, following Draco’s gaze.

“ _Well_ , I think that about does it, don’t you? Any other questions?”

Draco shakes his head. “I think that’s everything, actually.”

“Right. Perfect. So you’ll, er, need to come see me again at some point in order to talk about career goals. Required by the Headmistress herself. No rush, of course. Well, it has to be before the end of the term so we can adjust schedules for your last one, but other than that…” he trails off.

Draco stands slowly, not taking his eyes off Slughorn. “Thank you,” he says curtly. “I’ll be sure to ask ahead next time.”

“Oh, no problem, my boy, my door is always open!” he says, standing up himself. He follows Draco over to the door and opens it for him, another pregnant pause blossoming between them. “Glad you’re back this year, Malfoy,” Slughorn says, half through his teeth. Draco simply nods and gives him a small upward twitch of the lips, and with that, he’s gone.

 

His father is the fucking root of it all, isn’t he? Of course people know who Lucius Malfoy was, who he _is_ , and what can Draco do but be his son? No matter what he does the association is there: their hair, their faces, their eyes. That particular, Malfonic way they enunciate when they speak. All things directly programmed into Draco by Lucius himself. Is there any way to separate himself from the bastard, especially given his blind loyalty to him in the past? He _aches_ for an end of the scared glances and stilted conversations with professors and peers. He’s tired, _so_ tired of feeling like the privacy of his (shared) room is the only place he can exist in an area that isn’t littered with the rotting entrails of previous battles. Draco longs for reprieve, for some bloody _peace_. Maybe even happiness, eventually. But wait. That’s getting ahead of himself, that, isn’t it? When he isn’t numb, everything hurts. Feeling happiness seems just about as likely as running into a Crumple-Horned Snorkack in the Great Hall.

 

* * *

 

Draco hadn’t told anyone what his plans were for this morning. First of all, is that anybody’s business anyway? But second of all, he can’t help but feel a deep-rooted sense of shame about going to talk to some wishy-washy therapist bloke about his damn feelings. The only reason he’s even standing outside a classroom in a typically unused wing of the third floor is because he’s sure McGonagall would find out if he didn’t show up. McGonagall is maybe the last woman Draco would want to cross these days.

He’s trying to get himself to simply knock on the door, like he’s done so many times before in his life. It’s not something one thinks about, it’s just something one _does_ . And yet he’s standing stupidly in front of a door, limp fist hovering somewhere around the level of his his navel. He squeezes his eyes shut, cursing himself for being such an idiot. _Just. Knock. On the bloody door._

He finally takes a deep breath and raises his fist when the door swings open, the knob colliding with his stomach.

“Oh! Oh no, I am _so_ sorry,” comes an oddly accented voice from above him, as he’s now bent over in pain. He bites his tongue, tempted to retaliate but still reeling. “Are you alright?”

“Fine,” he grunts, finally righting himself to look at his attacker. Through watery eyes he can see that she’s much shorter than he is, by at least a head, maybe more. Her skin is dark and beautiful, her long hair braided down her back. Her accent sounds semi-Eastern; by his estimation, a sort of hybrid between British and Indian, maybe?

“Not my best introduction, I’ll admit,” she says, peering at him through round glasses.

“I’m unsure of your track record, but it definitely wasn’t great on my end,” he says, voice still slightly strained.

She laughs nervously, eyes still full of sympathy. “I’m Mari, by the way,” she says, holding out a hand. Draco takes it with the hand that isn’t clutching his abdomen. “Mari Mandal.”

“Draco Malfoy,” he replies, the rest of his senses finally coming back to him. “Are you also a student here?”

She blinks at him, then laughs. “No, I’m your therapist.”

 _Oh_. He’s not sure why, but he’d truthfully been expecting a stuffy, older man. This woman couldn’t be more than three or four years older than Draco, and she seems...nice.

“Oh,” he says, this time out loud. “Pleasure to meet you.”

“Likewise! Please, come in,” she says, opening the door wider, minding his presence this time around. “I hope you don’t mind beanbag chairs. The desks that are in here are so uncomfortable and not really conducive to counseling. And my conjuring magic is a bit rusty since I’ve left school, so beanbags are really all I can do.”

He nods, smiling politely. There are two large, squishy looking blobs sitting across from each other on the floor at the head of the classroom. He lowers himself onto one, sinking in more than he had been expecting. He huffs. It’s not exactly easy to look dignified when half of your body is being swallowed by a _beanbag chair_.

Mari smiles. “We can use the desks instead if you’d like. I just know that for me, it’s easier to be emotionally comfortable if you are physically as well. Whatever works best for you is what we’ll do.”

He shakes his head, re-adjusting himself. “No, this is fine,” he says, not wanting to seem unreasonable.

“Alright, let me know at any time if you change your mind,” she says, sinking down into her own chair. “So, Draco, what brings you here today?”

He pauses and swallows a quip, reminding himself that she’s only trying to help, and he’s not sure how this process is supposed to go.

“What exactly do you mean? I’m here for, you know, counseling, or therapy, or…” he says, trailing off. He feels stupid.

She nods. “Right, of course. Maybe _why_ is a better question, then.”

Again, he has to bite his tongue. “Well, Professor McGonagall mentioned that this is for people to...sort through things, after everything.” He can’t help but feel extremely defensive, the physical discomfort as his body keeps sinking into the chair only exacerbating this feeling.

“Good, good, but how exactly has it affected _you_?”

He blinks at her, honestly unable to locate a good beginning point for his woes. _Is birth too far back?_

“You see, therapy isn’t a cookie-cutter experience. Yes, we’ve all been through a collective trauma, if you will, but it affects people in such different ways that there’s no _one_ way to go about helping people through it, understand?”

He nods, impressed at the lack of condescension in her cheerful voice.

“Basically, therapy is based solely on personal experience. At least, that’s the way _I_ go about it. I don’t see any point in trying to derive some kind of solution that _might_ fit everyone and just stamping it into people’s heads. That’s bullshit, if you ask me.”

Draco’s eyes widen slightly, mostly because he hadn’t been expecting profanity (not that he’s a stranger to it), but mostly because he’s impressed. And also nervous. He clears his throat.

“To be fully honest, I think that’s more along the lines of what I thought this would be. I…” he pauses, but forces himself to continue. “I was raised in a pureblood family. Sharing our feelings was never really emphasized. Sometimes it was even looked down upon. I’m just not sure it’s something I’m _capable_ of.”

Mari nods. “I understand exactly where you’re coming from. I think you’re wrong about not being capable of it, though. It’s just a sort of emotional block, one you will start to get over, little by little!”

He sets his jaw, looking down at the floor. “I...I’m not sure if I want that.”

“Any idea why that is?”

He shrugs.

“It’s scary to open yourself to anybody, _especially_ when that person is a stranger. I recognize that. But therapy is an ongoing process. It won’t “fix” your life in one session by any means. It’s about understanding the past and using that understanding to guide how you move forward into the future. It takes patience and strength. Things I believe every person is capable of, even if it’s deep down.”

Silence falls between them. Draco gets the sense that she’s perfectly comfortable existing in it, but for him it’s just a call back to the heavy silence of Malfoy Manor. It’s this weight that eventually drives him to speak.

“I just wouldn’t even know where to start,” he says, heart skipping a beat when his voice breaks.

“You don’t have to start anywhere in particular,” she says quietly. “Healing isn’t linear. Nor is our experience of the world around us. Life is such a complicated thing and sitting around trying to understand all of it—and in order— would just be a waste of the life that’s still to come. We talk about what you feel is important, how it makes you feel and how it affects you, and then talk through and beyond it. I can’t promise I’ll always have the answers, or even that I’ll have them _often_. I’m just the instrument through which you can comprehend the happenings of your own life.”

Draco’s heart stop again when a tear manages to fall from his eye. He wipes it away quickly, face and neck hot with embarrassment.

“I don’t want to overwhelm you, Draco, I’m sorry. Look, how about we schedule another appointment for next week? You can come back—or not, if that’s what you do choose—after doing some self-reflection. Now that you have a better idea of what we’d actually be trying to accomplish, it might help guide your preparatory process. Jumping off in the beginning is the hardest part. But if you keep coming back, it can only get easier.”

He nods, collecting himself and letting the tension in his body start to flow away.

“Would the same day and time work for you? Right in this room?”

Another nod. He’s worried that if he tries to speak he won’t be able to stop, so he elects instead to keep his mouth closed.

“Right, then. It was very nice to meet you, and I hope to see you again next Sunday,” Mari says, standing up from her chair and waving her wand, sending it away. Draco also stands up (with some difficulty) and gives her one last polite tilt of the head before making his way out the door and down the hall, his slender legs taking him somewhere else, anywhere else.

 

Draco finds himself out on the grounds of Hogwarts, the early September sun warming the cool streaks where tears had been moments prior. Something strange had come over him in that room, something he can’t and doesn’t want to explain. He feels frustrated and trapped, still just _trapped_ in a spiral whose downward velocity increases by the day. He regrets...everything. That’s it, the one emotion that’s been slowly making its way into the vesicles of his flesh, nesting and reproducing like a virus. A wholehearted desire to change the way things happened.

Something Mari had said still resonates with him. _“Life is such a complicated thing and sitting around trying to understand all of it would just be a waste of the life that’s still to come.”_ Other than his strange meeting with Slughorn, Draco can’t remember the last time he actually thought about the future. For years, he either assumed he would be dead or that the world would be completely different, so the fact that things are relatively constant is a tricky one to navigate.

Still, he can’t help but value the logic in that. He’d spent too much time spent on thinking on the way things could have been, how they should have been. Never, not once, at least not since he was much younger, had he considered what might _be_ ; future tense.

The idea of classes starting is a comforting one. Even through all of the strange disruptions, there’s still a structural familiarity to being in school that gives him at least a small amount of peace of mind. Of course, this term is sort of a grab bag of classes that may or may not end up being relevant for him, but ones he’s nevertheless excited about. Potions, of course, would be the main event. Herbology tended to follow suit, as well as Charms and Transfiguration. Care of Magical Creatures...well, hopefully this would be the last time he would have to take that. And then there was Defense Against the Dark Arts...

He’s made almost three full laps around the lake already, his body trying to work out what his brain had refused to earlier. He wouldn’t call it cognitive dissonance necessarily, but he was suddenly assaulted by an invitation to dig deep and expose himself. Simply put, he hadn’t been ready. But he’s not sure how he could ever prepare himself to deal with some of the things he’s seen. Or the things he’s done.

Is that why he’s oddly drawn to Potter’s Defense class? He’d initially thought it was ridiculous himself, but that hadn’t stopped him from going to Slughorn for the exclusive reason of asking for admittance. The idea of being on a different side for once—the winning side—definitely has merit, but there’s something else too. Again, he can’t block out the image of his father, still out in the world somewhere, eluding justice. There are plenty others like him, and, given what Draco has learned about the nature of humanity, there will always be more. Always. Maybe if he’d learned a bit more, if he’d been more involved with the actual concrete and defensive aspects of his studies, maybe he would’ve been able to stand up for himself. If only he’d developed the spine for it…

Draco hears vaguely familiar laughter carrying across a courtyard as he nears the castle again, his body and mind alike exhausted. It’s with displeasure that he finally recognizes the laugh as it rings out again, this time in response to a familiar feminine voice. Potter, Granger, and Weasley enter the courtyard, Weasley’s face still stretched wide with laughter. Potter looks more serious. Draco pauses behind a pillar, both tired of walking and interested in hearing their conversation.

“I’m serious, you two. Do you think Expelliarmus is too basic for the first class?”

Weasley laughs again, making Draco wrinkle his nose.

“Harry, people have been telling you your entire career at Hogwarts that that spell is basic, but you defeated the Dark Lord _twice_ using it. Plus, it’s just overall a good spell to know. It’s useful in dueling as well as in self defense, and I think a lot of people will be at least vaguely familiar with it.”

Granger’s logic did have an annoying tendency to be fairly bulletproof. Draco has a hard time thinking of how he might oppose her, except maybe that some people already know it too well and therefore wouldn’t learn anything.

“I can’t argue with that, but McGonagall gave me free reign to teach whatever I want for this first class. Don’t you think people will think I’m boring for picking something so simple?”

“Honestly, mate, how could you ever think that anybody at this school would think of you as boring?”

“Besides, _they_ don’t need to know that it’s a personal choice! Nobody else has access to the requirements from the Ministry, so it would just be us.”

“Personally,” Weasley says, a bit obnoxiously, “I think people will be too busy wetting their pants over being in the same room as Harry sodding Potter to care about _what_ you’re teaching them.”

Draco hears Potter chuckle, the sound of a hand hitting an arm, and Granger exclaiming, “Ronald!” He’s also aware that these sounds are suddenly too close for his liking.

The trio rounds the corner of the outer walk of the courtyard and he has nowhere to go, so he stays put and pretends to be looking at something on one of his nails. Their raucous mirth immediately dies at the sight of him (something he’s accustomed to, honestly) and he looks up, trying to keep his face neutral.

“Hello, Malfoy,” Granger says tersely, clearly with the intent to simply pass him by.

Potter seems to follow suit, but Weasley stops. “Is eavesdropping on people just your idea of fun?”

Draco looks at him innocently. “I’ve been here for some time, now. Public space, you know?”

“Bullshit.”

“It’s not my fault if your conversation is loud enough for me to hear. Gearing up for your big day tomorrow, Potter?” he asks, the exhaustion of his day making to difficult for him to inject his usual venom. This is made clear by their reactions to what—to them, at least—simply sounds like a polite and curious question. Appearing curious was inevitable, of course, but any politeness had been strictly unintentional.

“Yeah. Reckon you heard most of that, then?” Potter responds, clearly trying himself to give Draco the benefit of the doubt.

Draco shrugs. “Bits and pieces,” he lies. “I don’t really make it a habit to purposely intrude on people,” he says, shooting (admittedly weak) daggers at Weasley. He stands up gingerly. “I just suppose it’s unfair to the other students that I’ve had the first lesson spoiled for me.”

Potter’s and Granger’s eyebrows both shoot upward, and Weasley makes a noise between gagging and coughing.

“You’re signed up, then?” Potter asks, sounding impressed.

Draco shrugs. “I figured I might as well. Wouldn’t want to be missing out on something...different,” he drawls, careful not to say anything specifically positive.

“ _You?_ Actively taking _Harry’s_ class? As in, on purpose?” Weasley finally manages to get out, still sputtering.

“I see you’ve caught up, Weasley. Yes, that’s correct. And if I’m lucky, I won’t see you until then.”

This earns Draco nasty looks from all three of them. He’s disappointed in the lack of delight he derives from this.

“That’s quite enough,” Granger says. “Can’t we put things behind us and be adult about things?” she asks, directing the question directly to Draco.

Weasley looks down at the ground stubbornly. Potter gives a twitch of an eyebrow and nothing else. Draco looks between them, offering no response. Finally Granger huffs and grabs the two boys by their arms.

“Alright, let’s just go, then,” she sighs, pulling Potter and Weasley (who graciously displays his middle finger for Draco) with her.

Draco sighs himself, ready to collapse in his bed and never leave it. He starts toward Ravenclaw Tower when something grabs his arm and pulls him into a dimly lit hallway, causing him to yelp in fear.

“Are you _mad_?” comes Pansy’s voice, doing little to help Draco’s nerves.

“Not last time I checked, no,” he replies, pulling his arm out of her grip. “Are you referring to something specific?”

“You’re going around being civil to Potty and friends now?”

Draco shrugs. “It was a simple little passing conversation, Pansy, nothing to get your undergarments in a twist over.”

“And you taking his Defense class, surely that was a bluff, right? Some kind of weird joke? You haven’t actually gone through with it?”

He opts not to answer, which is enough of an answer for her. He watches her face grow even angrier. “What fucking game are you playing, Draco? I don’t know how to crack you anymore.”

“Don’t flatter yourself. You never did,” he says wearily, turning to leave but inhibited by two arms pressed to the wall on either side of his body.

“I’m worried about you,” she says, badly attempting to conceal her anger under the guise of concern.

“Because I had one conversation with Potter?”

“Because you won’t talk to me anymore. Or any of the Slytherins, for that matter.”

He groans, pushing her arms away from his sides. “It’s because when we do talk, all you ever do is gripe about how awful Potter is. You can drop the subject, Pansy. War’s over.”

She steps back, frowning. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“It means you’re digging your heels in about the whole Potter situation. He’s really not _that_ bad a person. He did save the wizarding world, after all,” he says, not sure where the words are coming from.

She scoffs. “Do you even hear yourself? You’re _defending_ him?!”

“Yes, I suppose I am, Pansy.”

“But you _hate_ him, _we_ hate him; he’s a _Gryffindor_ , for the love of Morgana!”

“Look,” he growls, “we _lost_ , Pansy. We chose a side in that war, and it was the wrong bloody one,” he says, refusing to break eye contact. “Owning up to that feels like leaving behind everything we ever stood for, because it is. Like I have already mentioned, the whole world practically changed overnight. I’m done with all of this stupid, baseless hatred. Yes, I’m going to learn Defense Against the Dark Arts from the man who single-handedly defeated the Dark Lord, the very same Dark Lord _you_ tried to hand him over to, if I remember correctly! If anyone should be taking that class, it’s _you_. You should be groveling at his fucking feet and thanking him for saving your life! Surely you’re a complete imbecile if you still think we would’ve been safe had our side won that battle. That...that _thing_ didn’t have emotions, he didn’t have a soul. We were all just pawns to him, entirely disposable. The sooner you pull yourself together, come to terms with your failures and corrupt loyalties, and honor the fact that you have something— _lots_ of things—to apologize for, the sooner I can stop avoiding you for being utterly daft and ignorant.”

She steps back, her eyes wide. “Draco…” she mutters.

“I’ll see you at dinner,” he mutters and hurries off, unsure of what had possessed him to preach to her the way he did.

And the strangest part? Draco actually agrees with everything he’d said.


	6. knowing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all! This ended up being a bit more of a heavier chapter than I thought it would (but nothing too intense, I hope), and it's also where the plot really starts to pick up! I'd love to hear your thoughts/predictions etc. in the comments :)
> 
> POV: Harry

“This is absolute _bollocks_ ,” Ron says as he plops down at the Gryffindor table, not even pausing before he starts piling his plate with breakfast.

A notice about Quidditch had been posted that morning, which explains the way teams would be formed for the inter-House league. Madam Hooch would conduct tryouts for anybody interested—including Beauxbatons students—and make the teams herself. The total number of teams is still undecided, but the notice also included that the whole league would be cancelled if less than four teams end up being formed.

Harry sighs, nodding, because Ron is correct in that it is, in fact, _bollocks_.

“But look at it this way,” Hermione says, earning her a warning look from Ron. “Madam Hooch knows better than _anyone_ what she’s doing, so no matter what happens, you’ll be on a team of good players. It’s not up to the House captains anymore, people have to get through Hooch now!”

Ron tears a waffle in half and inhales one of the pieces. “That’s all well and good,” he says, mouth full, “but really, I’m most worried about having to play against Harry.”

“Really?” Harry asks, somewhat surprised.

Ron glares at him now, too. “Oh, shut up, you. Don’t act like you’re not the best damn Seeker Hogwarts has right now. If we’re not on the same team, I might as well just drop out of the whole league.”

“I’m out of practice,” Harry counters, pouring himself a large glass of pumpkin juice. “And I think it’s mad to get hung up on a possibility and threaten to not play for a whole year. Our _last_ year, remember?”

“Well, I’m still gonna _try out_ ,” Ron grumbles, earning him chuckles from Harry and Hermione. “D’you reckon Hooch will put us together because she knows we work well together? Or do you think she might separate us for the same reason?”

“You have to make the cut first, period,” Ginny jokes, suddenly appearing and sitting next to Hermione. Harry does his best to avoid her eye, which is made much easier by the fact that she seems to be doing the same. “I’ve heard some of the Beauxbatons lot are pretty nasty on a broom.”

Ron groans. “That’s _not_ what I needed to hear.”

“But there’s also a possibility for more than four teams, remember?” Harry says, hoping to avoid a bad Ron mood, _especially_ on their first day of classes.

His stomach lurches slightly when he remembers that in just a few hours, he’ll have to teach to a room of people just as old as him, all on his own, about a topic he’d never really had proper training in. Hermione and Ron had spent the entire night previous trying to convince him that it’ll come naturally, just as it had back with Dumbledore’s Army. They even humored him and allowed him to practice the intended spell to be learned on both of them, despite the fact that Harry had more experience with literally no other spell.

Then there was the class list. Monday’s class was designated for the seventh and eighth year students, and among them were, of course, Ron, Hermione, Neville, Luna, and Ginny, as well as names with varying degrees of familiarity to Harry. But then there were some more wildcard students, like Malfoy and Leon.

Another twist of his insides. Something about the knowledge of Leon’s presence in the class makes him even more nervous, as if he has something to prove to him. Not that he doesn’t feel that way about everybody else; there are clearly high expectations for Harry due to the short amount of time it took for both classes to fill up. Although, that could also be due to the fact that people like Defense Against the Dark Arts regardless of who’s teaching it. But it would be naive to dismiss the idea that his being _the_ Harry Potter didn’t have some influence on the sheer amount of interest. He tries to think rationally about the situation, knowing that he has the support of the likes of Kingsley, McGonagall, and Hermione (honestly, the most comforting thought of the three).

Harry’s soul nearly separates from his body when a pleasant voice suddenly comes from behind him, wrenching him out of his thoughts.

“Do you mind if I join you?”

After he’s made sure no pumpkin juice has made its way into his lungs, Harry turns around to see Leon standing behind him. His usual glow is absent, which Harry finds odd. Bags sit prominently under his eyes and his hair is only _just_ too messy to look deliberate.

“No, not at all,” Harry says, sliding toward Ron to make room. “I know you’ve met Ron already, but this is his sister, Ginny, and that’s Hermione, there,” he says, feeling awkward. “This is Leon, everyone.”

“Pleasure!” Hermione says, grinning.

“We were just talking about Quidditch,” Ginny supplies, clearly trying to size him up. “Do you play at all?”

Leon laughs, shaking his head. “I can, but _should_ I, that’s the question.” He smiles even bigger when everybody laughs, Harry included. Harry notices that with the smile briefly returns that same glow he’d thought to be absent. “I’m not very good, but I do know that there are quite a few students from Beauxbatons that take it very seriously. I’ll be very interested to see what kind of teams end up being formed.”

Ron leans forward to talk around Harry. “Anybody specific we should be on the lookout for?”

Leon hums, thinking. “I know there’s a boy named Pierre who’s a rather skilled Chaser, and my friend Bella is the best Beater I’ve ever seen.”

“A female Beater?” Ron asks, almost spilling his juice.

“And she’s a tiny girl, too! I suppose she just knows how to put her whole self into every swing of her bat. Both physically and mentally, maybe emotionally too...” He pauses and chuckles at himself. “Gosh, sorry, I can’t believe I’m getting sentimental about _Quidditch_ , of all things.”

But Harry smiles, because he understands completely. Across the table he meets Hermione’s eye; there’s a flash of something there, but she doesn’t say anything to him. He quickly looks away, clearing his throat.

“As long as everybody tries out, I bet the old Gryffindor team will find its way back together again,” Ron says, clearly trying to convince himself above anyone else.

Ginny rolls her eyes. “Not possible. Team members have to span at least three Houses, and they haven’t specified whether or not that also includes Beauxbatons.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s possible that every team has to include one person from Beauxbatons in _addition_ to the tri-House rule. So no matter what, there will be _at least_ two or three people who aren’t from Gryffindor on your team.”

Ron groans and lets his head slump down on to the table, creating a _thump_ that causes even neighboring tables to look up.

Leon chuckles, picking up a piece of toast and nibbling at it hesitantly. “He takes Quidditch quite seriously,” he remarks to Harry, whose heart trips over itself when he realizes this comment was _just_ for him.

“Oh, yeah. Well. I think he’s a little scared about life after Hogwarts, so he’s really giving his all this year. For Quidditch, at least,” Harry says back to Leon, trying to make eye contact while he speaks (like a normal person) but failing. The sound of Ron and Ginny arguing about new Quidditch logistics seems distant as Leon puts down his basically untouched piece of toast. Harry can’t help but feel worried that he’s eaten so little, but decides to keep his mouth shut.

“Are you excited about today?” Leon asks quickly, noticing Harry’s glance at his plate.

Harry shrugs, knot in his stomach tightening for the thousandth time this morning. “‘Excited’ isn’t the word I would use. Maybe not even ‘ready.’”

“If it makes you feel any better,” Leon says, leaning closer and lowering his voice more, “I’m a nervous wreck.”

It makes sense given some of the things Harry’s noticed about Leon, but it still comes as a surprise. “Really? You seem very at home here, I wouldn’t have guessed that.”

Leon nods. “It’s not that I’m not eager to start learning things the Hogwarts way, I just—”

He’s interrupted by Ron yelling “ _Bullshit_!” and nearly knocking over his glass, not for the first time this morning. Harry raises an annoyed eyebrow in question.

“Harry, would you _please_ tell Ginny that she’s not a better Keeper than I am?”

He glances between the two of them; Ron’s face dangerously colored, Ginny’s smug but defensive. “You’re both being prats. Ron, you’re an excellent Keeper. Ginny, what does it matter what kind of Keeper you are when you’re perfect as a Chaser? Now can we _please_ just have a normal breakfast?”

“Or at least as normal as _we_ can,” Hermione chimes in, trying to help diffuse the tension as she looks up from a textbook she’s already started to read.

Ron grumbles something like ‘but I’m still the better Keeper’ as Harry turns back to Leon, sighing. “Sorry about that. I wish I could say that this isn’t a regular thing, but I guess sibling rivalry is bound to happen when you’re so close in age.” He’s not sure if it’s a trick of the light, but it almost looks like Leon’s eyes are glassy. “So what were you saying?” Harry asks, trying to gauge where Leon is.

He shakes his head. “Nothing important.” Harry isn’t sure he believes him. “I think I’m going to go make sure all of my books and things are in order. I’ll see you later, alright?” Leon refuses to meet Harry’s eye as he stands, not waiting for a response before leaving the Hall.

Harry glares at Ron and Ginny. “Now you’ve gone and scared him off, really great stuff.” He looks after Leon’s retreating figure as Ginny makes some remark about the new kid not mattering, anyway, and huffs in frustration. He’s not usually one to intrude, but it feels to him like something serious might be going on with Leon.

“Harry, are you alright?” Hermione asks cautiously, closing her book.

He shakes his head. “I’m fine. Still just stressed about the first Defense class later, I suppose.”

She nods, pursing her lips. He can tell she wants to say something, but for his sake she holds back, simply nodding again with a bit more fervor and sighing. “Classes start in less than ten minutes, we should probably head out.”

Harry stands, again glancing in the direction of the exit. No sign of Leon. He huffs, trying to reorient himself. He has Charms first with Ron and Hermione, which will be a good place to decompress and not have to think too hard. He can’t imagine Flitwick will have them doing anything difficult for the first class session.

The trio leaves the table, supplying quick words of goodbye to their fellow Gryffindors. Hermione lays a hand on Harry’s upper arm as they walk. “Are you _sure_ you’re alright? If there’s something you want to talk about…” She trails off. Harry can tell _she_ feels like she’s pushing, which is why he’s able to take a deep breath and simply shake his head.

“It’s just been a weird time so far, coming back and all. Things will start to feel normal again soon, I bet.”

——-

This does _not_ feel normal. Harry stands at the head of the room, watching students his age file into the room and situate themselves in the rows of desks that face him. It’s both a comfort and a nerve-chewer to see so many familiar faces, and a good amount of former DA members are present. Hermione’s words of advice echo in his mind: _Just pretend it’s another DA meeting. Although, maybe without the looming threat of Umbridge finding out. And also without Voldemort still being alive. But then that sort of defeats the original purpose, doesn’t it..._ He smiles to himself, feeling both amused and comforted.

The comfort nearly slips away when Leon walks into the room, still looking frazzled. Harry tries not to stare as Leon looks around, trying to find a place to sit. Harry watches him meet Hermione’s eye, who gestures to the empty seat on her right. He smiles gratefully and slides past Ron, who is sitting on the end of the row. Leon looks up at Harry, who quickly glances away, pretending to be watching the door still.

At that moment, Malfoy walks in; his eyes are down, so he doesn’t realize that Harry notices his presence. He picks a seat at the very back of the room, keeping very much to himself and avoiding eye contact with just about everybody. Anticipating him looking up, Harry directs his attention back to the second row where Hermione and Leon are having what seems to be a very friendly conversation. At one point, Leon leans in close to say something, and she laughs and nods, glancing briefly at Harry. He can feel himself turning red, so he clears his throat and looks at the clock on the wall.

 _Well. It’s time. You can do this._ The voice in his head isn’t his. Not entirely, anyway. He hears the voices of the people who’d come before him and given him the strength and the knowledge he needed to be standing in this very spot. Remus. Tonks. Alastor. Sirius. Dumbledore. James and Lily… All great teachers, in their own right. Even Severus Snape’s wry smile briefly flashes in his mind.

Harry braces himself. He speaks.

“Er, hello everyone—” He stops mid-sentence, astounded at how instantly all chatter ceases and how all eyes jump to him. He quickly scans the room, faces full of eagerness and curiosity shining up at him. “Right. Hello, again. My name’s Harry, you can call me…well, just Harry’s fine, really.”

Ron snorts and Hermione swats at his chest without taking her eyes off Harry.

“As you all know, I’m sort of filling in the Defense position for now. So. That’s that.”

He feels himself going red again and looks desperately to Hermione and Ron, who both give him little nods of encouragement.

“We’re going to start really basic for our first class, just to sort of get into the swing of things. Honestly,” he says, pausing, considering whether or not he should continue his thought. “It’s going to take me a few classes to get my bearings, to be completely real with you. As some of you know, I have a little bit of teaching experience, but it’s limited, and those circumstances were a lot different. That was about survival, and this is about… Well, ultimately, it’s also about survival, I suppose.” He pauses again, aware that he’s rambling.

“So I wanted to start simple, with a little spell that I’ve used countless times in real life situations. _Expelliarmus_.”

A ripple of murmuring shoots through the classroom. Harry sees a hand shoot up and points toward it, Ernie Macmillan’s voice cutting through the air. “Isn’t that what you used to defeat, well, you know…” he says, trailing off when he realizes all attention is on him.

“As a matter of fact, it is, yes.”

“Twice!” Ron says, launching out of his seat. Hermione grabs at his robes, hissing “oh, will you _sit down?_ ”

“As Ernie just pointed out, this spell has come in handy at some very dire points in the past. Its purpose is simple: to disarm your opponent. But that can be vital in situations of survival. Even just a few seconds can be the difference between life and death.”

He clears his throat again. “Rather dark, I know,” he says, earning him a few chuckles and faint smiles. “Right then, let’s get into it. I suppose we should do a bit of a demonstration first, just in case anybody isn’t familiar with the spell.”

Heads start turning; people are trying to see if there’s anybody who _doesn’t_ know the spell.

“Ron, could you stand up, please?”

Ron smiles triumphantly, shooting up out of his chair and preparing his wand.

“Alright everybody, watch closely. The most effective way to use this spell is to add a sharp flick along with the incantation. Ready, Ron? 3, 2—“

Ron opens his mouth to start the spell but Harry is faster, shouting “ _Expelliarmus_!” and sending Ron’s wand flying to the back of the classroom. Ron’s face falls as the classroom is filled with the sound of his wand clattering to the floor followed by some light clapping and more murmuring. Hermione rolls her eyes and mutters “ _Accio_ ,” retrieving Ron’s wand for him.

“I thought _I_ was supposed to…” Ron says, frowning as he sits down again.

“Well, it’s _his_ class,” Hermione whispers.

Harry fights laughter as he holds a hand up, once again shocked at the instant silence. “So,” he says, feeling slightly out of breath, “what we’re going to do is pair up and do some practicing on each other. No point in just sitting around talking about it, as Defense is learned best in action.”

He sees Hermione narrow her eyes in apprehension and he continues. “After that, we’ll sit down and write a little bit about our experience with the spell, comparing our results to what’s expected of you as laid out in your textbooks.”

He fights another smile as he sees Hermione relax. The students start to stand up, grabbing each other so they get the partners they want. Desks are pushed to the sides of the room until it’s a long, open space.

“Does everybody have a partner? Just give a wave if not, we’ll make sure everybody’s got someone,” Harry says, craning his neck to see if there are any hands. There are just two: Leon, and, from the back of the room, Malfoy. Harry swallows, being extra careful not to change his tone or facial expression. “Alright then, Leon and Malfoy, you can be partners!”

Some emotion displays briefly on Leon’s face, but Harry doesn’t have enough time to decipher it. He sees Hermione give Leon’s arm a little squeeze and he relaxes, glancing quickly at Harry and joining Malfoy towards the back of the room.

“Right side of the room will be casting first, and then the left. Don’t try to do any kind of defending when it’s not your turn, either. The whole point of this exercise is to give everybody a fair shot at it. So, right side, on my mark…” He watches with pleasure as everybody readies themselves, anticipating his go ahead.

“Now!”

The room erupts into cries of _Expelliarmus!_ and subsequent cries of amusement or protest as wands fly through the air. Harry smirks when Hermione skillfully catches Ron’s wand, giving Harry a big grin. Ron huffs, holding out his hand to request his wand back.

“Hey, everyone, look here,” Harry projects over the din. “Once you start to get more advanced with the spell, you can actually control where exactly your opponent’s wand goes. For example, into your own hand, like Hermione’s done!”

“This bloke’s done it, too!” comes a voice from the back of the room. All heads turn in its direction and Harry can’t help but beam when he sees Leon blushing, Malfoy’s wand in his left hand.

“Er, like I said, that’s something we can work on down the line, as it’s more advanced than what I’m expecting for this first lesson. Cheers to you two, though, for going above and beyond. Now, left side, time for your revenge. Make sure everybody gets their wand back, that’s it… Alright, ready?”

He grins as everybody gets into position once more. “To reiterate, I am _not_ expecting anything fancy, just disarm your opponent and leave it at that for now.”

Tension hangs in the room as he glances back and forth between the sides of the room.

“Go!”

A similar racket breaks out as the other half of the room utters their incantations. Harry ducks as a wand twirls over his head. “Sorry!” comes Neville’s voice from somewhere in the middle of the room. Once the noise dies down, Harry assesses the damage. Not one person was unable to disarm their opponent.

“Really well done, everybody! I know this is an upper-level course, but I’m still impressed!” He really is genuinely dazzled, both by his peers and himself. He suddenly feels much more comfortable and in his element.

Once everybody has their wand back, they go through two more rounds of disarming each other, some students feeling bold and attempting to catch their opponents’ wands. A few are successful, including Ginny and Luna, who are partnered up. Ron gets close but nearly pokes his eye out with Hermione’s wand, which instead bounces off his forehead.

“So now, put the desks back to the way they were and take out a piece of parchment to compare your results to what’s in your books. As soon as you’re done, you can turn it in to me, and you’re free to go. You won’t be getting out early every time, so don’t get any ideas,” he says, directing this last comment mostly at Ron, whose face falls slightly.

The room falls into silence, only broken by the sound of quills scratching furiously against parchment, everybody eager to get out and enjoy the warm September afternoon.

“Really excellent job, mate,” Neville says quietly as he hands Harry his writing. “Really reminds me of the DA days, but much less stressful.”

Harry grins. “Thanks a bunch, Neville,” he says, matching his volume so as not to distract anybody else. “It feels good to be back.”

Neville winks at him and gives him a pat on the shoulder. “It sure does. I’ll see you.”

Students gradually funnel up to the front of the room, most of them giving him a little smile or a quick ‘thanks’ before scurrying off. The large desk he’s sitting on is soon covered in pieces of parchment covered in various amounts of writing.

Ginny avoids Harry’s eye as she drops off her piece of paper, instead focusing on the conversation she’s having with Luna. Harry sighs, not really sure how he’s feeling about _that_ whole situation. He doesn’t have much time to think about it as Leon approaches the desk, grinning.

“How do you feel?” he asks, gathering and organizing the other pieces of parchment on the desk and placing his carefully on the top of the pile.

“You don’t have to—” Harry says, stopping when Leon looks up at him.

“Hmm?”

He laughs. “Nothing, thank you for doing that,” he says. Leon smiles again, shrugging. “I feel pretty good, to be honest.”

“Good! You deserve to feel good, that was the most fun I’ve ever had in a Defense Against the Dark Arts class.” Something in his voice tells Harry that he means it. “Harry, would you mind going on a quick walk with me once you’re all done here? I just have some things that I wanted to talk to you about.”

Harry tries to fight the heat that always seems to rise to his face when Leon looks at him with those golden-brown doe eyes.

“Is something the matter?”

“Oh, no, no! I just..” he sighs. “You know what? Nevermind, I’m sorry, I’ll just—”

“Hey, Leon, it’s not a problem or anything! Would you mind just waiting out in the hallway until everybody’s finished?”

Leon blinks. “Absolutely. Sorry,” he says again.

“Stop apologizing!” Harry says, laughing gently, earning him a bashful smile.

“See you in a few, then,” Leon concludes, practically running out of the classroom.

Hermione and Ron approach next, his arm around her waist. Hermione is giving Harry _some_ kind of look, but he can’t quite figure out what it is.

“Crushed it!” Ron says triumphantly. “And finally, a subject where not only Hermione is the star student,” he adds, puffing his chest out a bit.

She snorts. “Rather bold coming from the boy who almost gouged out his eye with someone _else’s_ wand!”

Ron rolls his eyes and kisses her on the cheek. “Fine, Hermione’s still the star student, no surprise there. That Leon guy’s not too shabby, either. Did you see the look on—”

Hermione shushes him, both of them looking over their shoulders to see Malfoy still working on his parchment. He shows no indication of hearing their conversation, though, so Ron continues quietly.

“The bloody look on his face when Leon caught his wand? Absolutely priceless.”

Hermione rolls her eyes. “I rather like Leon,” she says thoughtfully, looking at Harry almost expectantly.

“Yeah, he’s great,” he responds, trying to figure out her expression. “He actually has some business he needs to talk about, so you two can go on ahead without me. Meet by the lake later?”

“You’re ditching us for him again?” Ron asks playfully, clearly over his prior jealousy.

Now it’s Harry’s turn to roll his eyes. “Only briefly. You know how crazy things are, we have to keep each other in the loop and all that.”

“And will Luna be joining you?” Hermione asks.

“Er, no,” he admits.

“Does she usually?”

“Well, it’s not like we’re having daily meetings or anything! And whatever he tells me, I make sure gets passed along to her.”

“Alright, alright,” Hermione says, smiling knowledgeably.

Harry looks at her skeptically for a second. She simply raises her eyebrows and he huffs.

“Am I missing something?” Ron asks.

“I’m wondering the same thing,” Harry says, feeling almost frustrated.

Hermione sighs, still grinning. “I just think it’s nice that you’re making a new friend, that’s all,” she says, slightly defensive.

Harry isn’t fully sold on her explanation but doesn’t feel like getting into it, so he just laughs and shakes his head. “I’ll catch up with you later, alright?”

“Alright,” Hermione repeats, still slightly patronizing. “We’ll be under that big tree, as long as it isn’t already taken.”

“We can just hex whoever’s there if they don’t want to give it up,” Ron says, only half-joking. Harry laughs to himself as they exit the classroom, Hermione explaining why it’s not morally permissible to go around hexing people for simply sitting in a public place that they’ve unofficially claimed as their own.

Harry scans the classroom, only a few stragglers remaining. He watches Malfoy as everybody else finishes up, wondering what could possibly be taking him so long. He’s not fully clear on the blonde’s work ethic, especially when it comes to a Potter-taught Defense class, but sure enough Malfoy is eventually the last person in the room.

Harry clears his throat. “You know, the assignment isn’t that serious,” he says, making sure his voice travels to the back of the room. Malfoy’s head snaps up and he looks around, going slightly red upon realizing he’s the last one.

“Of course not, I just like to be thorough,” he mutters, gathering up his things and approaching Harry with the parchment in his outstretched hand. “Thanks,” he says, not meeting Harry’s eye.

“Malfoy, why did you take this class?” Harry asks out of the blue.

The blonde is taken off guard. “I...I’m not fully sure, if I’m honest. It just seemed like the thing to do.”

Harry raises an eyebrow and laughs through his nose. “Okay, then. Well, good job today, anyway.”

Malfoy gives him a curt nod. He opens his mouth to say something else but is interrupted.

“Harry? Are you almost done?” comes Leon’s voice from the doorway. “Oh, I’m sorry, am I interrupting something?”

“No, not at all,” Malfoy says, irritated. “I was just leaving.” He turns on his heel and rushes out of the room, pushing past Leon in the doorway.

Harry frowns down at the piece of parchment in his hand; only a few lines are written. The material included is good, but it definitely isn’t enough to have taken Malfoy so long to write. Unless…

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to intrude,” Leon says as he re-enters the room. “Honestly, though,” he continues, lowering his voice as he gets closer, “I’m not much a fan of that Malfoy boy.”

Harry chuckles. “I completely understand. You should’ve seen him a year or so ago. He wasn’t just a prat, he was an _evil_ prat.”

“I’m well aware,” Leon says, the venom in his voice clearly not directed at Harry. “His energy is just rather...off-putting” he decides.

“Yeah, sorry about that whole partner deal. I’ll try to make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

“I’d appreciate that,” Leon says, grinning. “Shall we?”

Harry nods, carefully slipping the stack of papers into his bag and exiting the room, closing the door behind them. They head out to the grounds together, passing by lots of students high off finishing class for the day.

“That was pretty impressive back there, by the way,” Harry says, referencing Leon’s catching Malfoy’s wand. “Hermione is sort of infamous for always showing everybody up, but you were right there with her!”

Leon laughs. “It was nothing! I got lucky, it just sort of _happened_. It did feel good, admittedly.”

“As it should! So what exactly is it that you wanted to talk about?” Harry asks as the afternoon air hits his skin, the sun forcing him to squint.

Leon hesitates. “Quite truthfully, it has nothing to do with Hogwarts or our duties.”

Harry’s heart jumps in his chest and his mouth goes a bit dry. “Oh?” he says, trying to sound casual.

“It’s more...It’s more of a personal thing. If that’s ok?” he asks, turning finally to Harry. “I realize that it’s not what you were expecting, but I feel like… I think you might be the only person who will _really_ understand.”

His heart almost stops entirely when he hears that Leon is starting to get choked up.

“No, yeah, of course, what is it?”

Leon sighs, his shoulders relaxing a bit already.

“Um, it’s about the war. You know how I told you that Beauxbatons was also attacked around the same time Hogwarts was?”

Harry nods, noticing how Leon’s accent is more prominent as he pronounces the name of his school.

“Lord, I don’t even know where to begin…” Leon says, inhaling sharply. Harry stops walking, turning fully to him.

“Start wherever feels right. Wherever you need to.”

Leon takes a deep breath, continuing. “Well, there was a lot of chaos that night. So many people were separated from their friends, their loved ones... I thought I was doing the right thing at the time, and I think that means that it _was_ —at least, that’s what I keep telling myself _—_ but I still can’t help but wonder… I’m sorry, it’s so hard to approach this so head on.” Harry starts to feel a small amount of panic rise in his chest when he notices Leon’s shallow breathing, but he tries to be attentive and let Leon keep going. He touches the shorter boy’s elbow gently, just to let him know he’s listening.

“When the Death Eaters broke into the school, my best friend and I hid right away. It just seemed like the thing to do initially, you know? Your instincts kick in and you fight or you flee. We almost managed to make it out of the school, but… I wasn’t sure where my sister was, I couldn’t find Ariana—” The name strikes something inside Harry. “...and I just couldn’t bring myself to leave not knowing... I asked whoever I could find if they had seen her, but everybody was so panicked that they weren’t really paying attention to what was going on around them or who they saw.”

Harry’s pulse is rapid, and he’s starting to sweat in the sunlight. The story brings back memories of the Battle of Hogwarts, of students frantically checking in with each other as they dodge curses and try to hold their ground.

“And we eventually found her. She was… A Death Eater had her, his arm was around her neck, and it looked like he was going to—” He gasps quietly. “He was going to use her as a human shield. Against her fellow students.”

“Leon…” Harry murmurs, not sure how to help.

“And Marcus and I—Marcus...is my friend—we somehow managed to capture another Death Eater. We had our wands up against his throat, you know? What else were we supposed to do? So I tried to bargain with the first one, I told him, ‘You give me back my sister, and we’ll let your friend go.’ He just...he laughed, and he said that he didn’t care what happened to his friend. I couldn’t tell if he was bluffing or not, but I wasn’t in my right mind, so I…”

Leon stops, a quiet sob passing his lips.

“I killed him, Harry. It all happened so fast, but suddenly he was on the ground and so was Marcus, and then I was completely paralyzed and all I could hear was Ariana screaming as that _bastard_ dragged her away, and now all I hear when I try to sleep is the sound of her crying and screaming for me to save her, and I just couldn’t _move_ as hard as I tried, and now two people are dead because of me, and then once they were gone someone else found me and dragged me to safety but I couldn’t tell them that I just needed to go _back_ , I had to go back, I _left_ her,” he cries, now gasping for air.

They’re near the edge of the Forbidden Forest, completely alone. Harry places his hand on Leon’s back, gently guiding him to kneel in the cool grass. Leon is crying, tears streaming down his face, but the only noise he makes are desperate gulps for air. Not knowing what else to do, he pulls Leon into his body, his forehead resting on Harry’s shoulder.

“You need to breathe,” Harry says, shocked at how calm his voice sounds. “Can you breathe with me?”

“I left her, I left her,” Leon keeps repeating, completely shell shocked.

“Shhh,” Harry insists. “Listen.” He breathes in slowly, audibly, and releases. He repeats this until Leon starts to follow his lead, the gasping stopping, replaced by deep, shaky breaths. They stay there for a moment, Leon’s eyes squeezed shut, still dripping tears on Harry’s shirt. Without moving, he finishes his story.

“We never found her body, Harry. She could still be out there somewhere. Anywhere. And Marcus...he died trying to help me save her, and it was all for _nothing_.”

Harry nods, allowing his grip around Leon to tighten slightly and relax again.

“I thought being at a different school after a whole summer of starting to cope with it would help, but half the time I turn around and expect to see them walking into the Great Hall with the rest of the Beauxbatons students. I want to tell them about your moving staircases, and the beach painting on the third floor that drips actual salt water down the wall, and the ceiling that looks like the night sky. But he’s not here, she’s not here…”

“She’s out there, somewhere. She has to be,” Harry says, because for Leon, he _wants_ her to be.

Leon shakes his head, sniffling. “I tried to think that way at first, but it’s just too hard. I can’t keep going on expecting to see her again. So I...my parents are already mourning her, like she’s _dead_. And I don’t know if I can do that yet, but I don’t know what else to _do_. Marcus, too. He might be alive still if it weren’t for me.” He pulls away from Harry, his eyes red and shiny, face puffy. “I’m so sorry to unload all of this on you. I know we aren’t...we’re not close or anything, but I just don’t know if anybody would be able to understand like you can.”

Harry nods, feeling oddly appreciative of that. He thinks for a second. “Leon,” he starts, taking a deep breath, “we’ve all had to do things, _horrible_ things, just to survive the nightmare. Let’s start there. I had to sacrifice parts of who I was to stay alive, and I still don’t really know how to deal with that. I feel like a completely different me after everything is said and done. But what you said at the beginning, about how it felt right at the time and so it must have been right… Leon, you did everything you could to try to save her. What you did made a difference, whether or not you feel like it did. Losing someone is hard. And losing two people at the same time like that is impossible. You can’t put all of the blame on yourself, it’s just going to keep breaking you down like this.”

“How do I even start to move past this? He died for nothing, it should’ve been _me_ —”

“Stop. Don’t. Do _not_ go there. I’ve spent so much of my own life there, thinking that it should have been _me_ instead. But those people...they didn’t die in vain, they died standing up for a cause that they believed in, and everything they did made a difference. You _have_ to believe that, you have to believe that he did it all for a reason and that he wouldn’t change a thing, even if he could.”

Leon lets out another sob, falling against Harry’s chest again. He rubs the smaller boy’s back, allowing Leon to empty himself as much as he can.

“You haven’t told anybody this before?” Harry eventually asks once Leon has calmed down again.

Leon sighs. “Well, my parents know about Ariana, of course. And everybody knows that Marcus...that he didn’t make it out. But I don’t think anybody knows exactly what happened. And _nobody_ knows that Ariana is missing.”

Harry frowns. “What do you mean?”

Leon shakes his head. “My parents gave up almost right away. Not because they didn’t care, but because they just couldn’t fathom a way that she made it out, even though there was no evidence that she _didn’t_. So they didn’t broadcast that she was missing, and in the madness it’s not like anybody kept good track of who else made it to the other side.”

Harry sighs. “Fuck,” he mutters, still trying to push away the flood of memories of his own battle that keeps rushing to the front of his brain. He can’t deal with that, not now. Not knowing that this tragic secret has been weighing Leon down like this for months.

“How do you do it?” Leon finally asks, wiping his eyes. “How can you even go on living after something like that?”

“I...will let you know when I start to figure it out myself,” Harry says gently, feeling utterly heavy. “What I do know is that you have to compartmentalize. Let yourself feel it in bursts. Don’t entertain what-ifs. Know, now, that someone else knows and recognizes your truth and doesn’t think of you negatively for it. If anything, I think you’re brave—for going through it, _and_ for telling me. But overall, you just… You can’t let the world stop spinning around you, even if it feels like it has.”

Leon gazes at him, a slight smile forming on his face. “Wow,” he breathes. “Again, I’m really sorry about all of this, but...this did help a lot more than I expected it to.”

Harry pulls him in for another hug. “I think you mean ‘thank you,’” he jokes.

“What?”

“Instead of apologizing, just say ‘thank you.’ It takes away any question of blame or burden. I don’t blame you for anything, and you are anything but a burden.”

Leon pulls away, nodding. “I’ll try to keep that in mind.”

“I’m really sorry you’ve been going through all of this alone, but I’m glad you told me. And know you can tell me anything. This is my official confidentiality promise,” Harry says finally, smiling. Despite his own ghosts swirling around his head throughout the conversation, he feels somewhat at peace knowing he was able to help somebody else, even if only a small amount. He isn’t even sure where it had all come from. But it was the first time he’d really, explicitly talked to someone about the war. Sure, him and Ron and Hermione reference it from time to time and comfort one another just in _knowing_ , but there was something different in talking about it in depth like this.

They both stand, the sun starting to drop in the sky, casting a multitude of colors across the sky that surrounds them.

“We should get back to the castle,” Leon says.

“Agreed. Do you want to join us for dinner?” Harry asks casually, feeling much more relaxed around Leon suddenly.

“Sure,” he says, grinning. “You know,” he continues as they start to walk, “I don’t know if anybody has ever been willing to listen to me like that.”

“Really?” Harry asks, actually surprised.

“Okay, not quite. I have an ex who was a really good listener, but was never able to respond with such insight as yours.”

Something suddenly feels off to Harry. Peculiar. He’s hyper aware, now, of how close Leon is walking to him, of how he keeps glancing over. Of the way he said “ex.”

“I really don’t know what came over me,” Harry says honestly. The brief moment of relaxation is gone fully, replaced by a rising anxiety. “That’s not usually my thing.”

“Well, it’s much more your thing than it was his, that’s for sure.”

 _His. Oh._ Suddenly a lot is making sense to Harry, and so many other things are _not_ making sense at _all_. An overwhelming fire of confusion lights in his brain, and the panic in his chest boils over when he feels five delicate fingers wrap around his own.

“I need to go,” he says suddenly, pulling his hand away with more vigor than intended. “I’m sorry, I just—I need to go.”

He only briefly catches Leon’s expression of bewilderment and disappointment as he all but sprints away, across the grounds and back to where things make sense. He passes the lake, his mind hazy, yelling. He hears yelling, all he hears is yelling, and someone is yelling his name. He suddenly snaps back to his surroundings.

“Harry! Are you thick?” he hears somewhere from behind him. He turns around, eyes wide, to see Ron and Hermione chasing after him. He must have sped right past them. “I thought for sure you were blowing us off again,” Ron says, looking a bit confused.

Harry takes a step backward, shaking his head.

Hermione’s face immediately shifts from amused annoyance to deep concern. “Harry? Is something wrong?”

He takes another step backward. “I-I don’t know. I have to go. I’ll talk to you later. Sorry,” he rambles, turning again and taking off back toward the castle.

“Harry?!” they both call after him, but he doesn’t turn, he doesn’t look back at the lake or the forest or the pink and orange sky spreading out above him, warm and inviting. He just keeps running, through the doors and up stairs, as fast as his legs will take him, until his back is against his closed bedroom door, his chest heaving and his nerves on fire.

_Bloody hell._


	7. crushed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello readers!! It's been some time since I updated this, which I attribute to school for sure. However, I got a job basically just writing on campus all summer, so I will have plenty of time to work on this and hopefully update more frequently!! This chapter is one that has sort of been planned from the beginning but in writing it I changed a lot of things that now feel like they make more sense and propel the story in the direction I need it to go, so yay for that! OK, enough of me rambling. Enjoy, and please leave a comment if you can! :)

Draco is trying his best not to fall asleep in the grass around him. The cool blades tickle his ankles as he lounges by the lake, watching the sun start to go down. Time is up on another day. And so tomorrow would begin another one. His chest tightens at the thought, but he tries to brush the feeling away and enjoy the warm evening. It won’t be long until snow barrages the castle’s windows and the students will be more or less confined to its interior.

The loneliness usually has a sort of crushing quality to it, like something that threatens his joints and drives his feet into the mud. But now, the last thing Draco wants is company. Despite the peppering of anxious thoughts that inevitably crop up, for the first time in a long time he feels an odd sort of calm. The palette of the sky is soft and inviting, begging Draco to just let his eyes close. Just for a few minutes, of course. If he falls asleep out here, he may very well wake up in the same spot the next morning. Who would even notice his absence? Blaise, perhaps, but Draco has doubts that his roommate would do anything about it.

It’s this question and the pondering of what might happen to him should he actually pass out that swirls around him as his eyes do start to close, lids blocking out the expanse of color above him.

“Harry! Harry?”

Draco grunts and sits up abruptly as a voice carries from the other side of the lake. He exhales and rubs his eyes, annoyed but intrigued. Granger.

“Harry! Are you thick?” And there’s Weasley. He peers out across the water, seeing Potter pass the other two and turn around. He stumbles but stays on his feet as they approach. Weasley says something else, Draco can’t hear it this time, and Potter takes off again, causing them both to call his name once more before sprinting after him, back toward the castle.

He rolls his eyes. There always has to be some sort of drama, doesn’t there?

But wait. Who’s this? Another person has just come into Draco’s view, as if following after Harry as well.

 _Interesting_ … It’s that Leon boy. The one who’d made a fool of him in Harry’s class. _What the hell is going on?_

Draco dives to the ground as Leon looks his way, hoping that the small amount of brush around him is keeping him hidden. He presses himself to the ground, heart pounding. _This is absolutely ridiculous. I’m not even doing anything wrong._ He sits up, relieved anyway to see that Leon has moved on and is making his way back to the castle as well.

He stands, annoyed that his one moment of peace had to be disturbed. And by _Potter,_ no less.

_No. You’re not doing that anymore. Not over him, not over anyone._

It’s starting to get too dark, whatever the case may be. Plus, his growling stomach is as good an indication as any that his alone time should come to an end. He sighs, the thought of finding a spot at what has essentially become the Beauxbatons table putting a damper on his appetite. He turns around, staring for a second at the Draco-shaped indentation in the grass. How lovely would it be to just lie down again and drift off into his own private oblivion? He genuinely contemplates it for a moment, but finally rips his gaze away from his quiet hiding place and starts his trek back to the castle, chastising himself for being foolish.

 

As expected, the Slytherin table is overrun by a sea powder blue, though Draco sees a flash of green at the far end. He approaches, realizes it’s Pansy, and turns around, opting to sit at the other end on the very corner. He can’t quite reach the food in the center of the table but a scared-looking redhead from Beauxbatons frantically passes things as he asks for them. He finds himself close to snapping at the boy, but reels in his frustration and swallows it down with his meal. Fatigue is setting in as it does so frequently these days, and he can’t help but picture himself lying next to the lake, unbothered, the breeze of departing summer shushing him to sleep.

He yawns, doing his best not to fall asleep right at the table. As he stretches, he notices Leon sitting at the Gryffindor table. He’s alone, oddly. Draco doesn’t know what to make of it, though it’s far from his business. Still, he’s sure _something_ is going on based on the scene he’d witnessed just earlier, but what could it possibly be? Is Potter feeling threatened by Leon’s position as Beauxbatons Head Boy? Had they fought about something? Or was Leon’s presence by the lake completely unrelated?

Maybe he was obsessed with Harry. It would certainly explain why he’d felt the need to show off in Defense. Who wouldn’t want to catch the attention of the literal savior of the wizarding world?

Draco watches him for a small while, wondering why Leon keeps glancing toward the doors. He finds himself doing the same, figuring he must be waiting for Potter.

_Waiting for Potter…_

And suddenly he feels like an absolute fool reflecting on his behavior at the end of Defense Against the Dark Arts. He’s still trying to decide what his intentions were, as at the time he’d no plan whatsoever. His hope was that whatever he wanted to say would just come to him when he was face to face with Potter, but of course this blasted Leon had to ruin that. And he couldn’t very well attempt it again; that would be far too transparent.

Leon suddenly stands across the room and breaks him from his thoughts as Draco opts to watch him storm out of the Great Hall. It’s hard to tell from a distance, but it looks almost as if he’s...crying? Draco is unsure of how that might fit into any of the hypothetical narratives he’s constructed, so he decides it’s probably time to go to bed and quit being so nosy. He gives the younger boy next to him a polite nod and thanks him for helping him with the food during their meal. He’s nothing if not properly polite.

Draco exits the Hall, still wrapped up in his own musings of the situation he’d witnessed. It’s without conscious choice that he finds himself following after Leon, heading toward Gryffindor territory as opposed to the Ravenclaw Tower. Technically, he isn’t doing anything wrong. Students have free roam of the halls for another couple of hours, and it’s not like he would actually try to get into their common room. Despite all of this, he finds himself crouching slightly, walking quickly along the wall. He hears voices around the corner and straightens up, evening his pace and pretending to look at something on his nails. _Very inconspicuous._ He rolls his eyes at himself and continues, abandoning his half-sneaking posture.

He comes to the staircases in the midst of motion, eyes scanning the maze above him for the boy. Draco scowls when he doesn’t find him and concedes, not sure what his purpose was in following him in the first place. It’s with a mild itch at the back of his mind that he instead treks to his own room, dreading whatever blasted riddle he’ll have to answer simply to enter the common room. He’d asked the Ravenclaw Prefects if perhaps that specific bar might be lifted for the Slytherins, which was met with a question of his intellectual capability. Any outward complaining from Draco has since ceased.

So it’s with surprise that Draco approaches his proxy common room, the door hanging open. He frowns, creeping toward it. It seems that things are normal inside; a few students are gathered around a table, already hard at work on something _(what work could they possibly have this early in the term?)_ and some others are lounging around and chatting. He enters, shrugging off the pointed looks that wrap around him, and approaches the group of people in conversation.

“Excuse me, do any of you know what’s going on with, er—” He gestures to the open door, wondering if he’s missed some kind of memo.

One of the Ravenclaws rolls his eyes at the Slytherin intrusion. Draco thinks his name might be Michael. “The Grey Lady has gone on a bender of sorts. She’s been howling around all day, spouting nonsense about old magic and danger in the castle.”

“We think the battle last year really did her in,” says another—Anthony, maybe?

Draco blinks. “I’m still not sure how that’s relevant.”

“She opened the door a few hours ago and refuses to close it. McGonagall herself tried to get it shut, but it won’t budge.”

Draco’s mouth thins. “Are we safe? With it hanging open like this?”

Anthony shrugs. “Your room’s got a lock on it, yeah? Would recommend using it, just for tonight.”

“But it’s not like the Ravenclaws have many enemies.”

“Right, we didn’t think so either,” Michael says, lowering his voice. “But I’m sure you’ve heard about that first year that got clobbered. Barely had time to make enemies, but she’s still lying in the Hospital Wing, isn’t she?”

“You’re worried something might happen to someone here, too?”

Michael shrugs. “Well, I haven’t ruled out the possibility.”

“Though you have ruled that your ghost’s ramblings are nonsense?”

Michael narrows his eyes. “Do you really think McGonagall—or any professor in their right mind—would allow the school to reopen if there were any real danger to us?”

Draco huffs, not impressed by his logic. Ravenclaws are supposed to be intelligent, he thought. “I suppose not,” he says through his teeth, turning away to head toward his room. He blocks out the annoyed muttering behind him as he goes, casting a final sideways glance at the open door and instinctively reaching out for his wand. Just to make sure it’s there.

 

Blaise is sitting up in his bed, head in a book. He peers around it, gives a sort of hum to acknowledge Draco’s presence, then goes back to his reading. Fine by Draco; he’s done just about as much conversing as he can for the day. It’s still early, probably too early to think about sleeping, but a full stomach and relatively clear mind seem to be calling his head to his pillow. He at least changes into clothes that are more comfortable—a pair of grey joggers and a simple green shirt.

Reflecting on what he now knows about the Ravenclaw ghost, Draco has an odd urge to ask Blaise if he knows anything else. Anything that might actually be helpful. But the two are on good terms and he would like to keep it that way, and he _knows_ Blaise hates being interrupted while reading. Instead, he crawls into bed and looks out the window, the last shards of late evening light starting to dissipate over the grounds beyond. Before he knows what’s happening, his eyes are closing.

 

Draco is in the Room of Hidden Things. He’s alone, and he’s running. Looking for something. He can’t quite picture what it is, but he knows that when he sees it everything will make sense, he’ll just _know._ His mouth is dry, so dry, and he can feel sweat creeping out of every pore, his skin tingling. He comes to an abrupt stop, turns down a different row of junk and antiques and broken magical devices, eyes zooming around the artifacts around him. He can’t find the…the… _bloody hell, what am I even looking for?_

At the end of this row is his father. Lucius shakes his head, a smile on his face. Draco’s already pounding heart slams his ribcage, his pulse prominent in his neck. He tries to swallow down the fear, but his mouth is too dry and it feels like the room is heating up and Lucius is raising his wand, he’s _laughing_ and it’s not his voice but it’s coming from his mouth.

Draco tries to turn and run. His feet are stuck to the floor somehow, and he can feel his muscles straining as he continues to pull and pull and pull, and it’s all he can do not to curse his own feet off his damn legs when he sees a wave of roaring fire explode from the tip of his father’s wand, flaming creatures with horns and teeth and hooves stampeding towards him, Vincent’s screams emanating from their maws. He still can’t move and the horde is approaching, everything around it obliterated by the heat. Draco scrambles for his wand, tries to mutter something—anything—that might protect him from the white-hot onslaught that is only moments from impact, but something is caught in his throat. He slams his eyes shut, bracing for impact as the heat becomes unbearable, the sound of his father’s demented laughter echoing through the flames.

 

He sits up, gasping for air. He’s in his bed, drenched in sweat, face slick with tears. He nearly knocks over the glass of water on his bedside table as he reaches for it, gulping down every last drop despite his brain’s commands to _breathe, Draco, breathe._ He sits for a moment, panting, hands trembling as he places the empty receptacle back in its place. It isn’t the first time he’s had a nightmare like it, but it hasn’t happened in some time, and never in such vivid detail.

A few minutes pass and he realizes dawn has just broken, a lilac sky soothing his shot nerves. He collapses onto his back, running a hand through his sweat-slick hair, still trying to catch his breath. So, it’s going to be one of _those_ kinds of days.

 

Draco finds himself drifting off during Potions. Odd for him. The ultra-strength burn salve he’s working on is bubbling away in front of him, warm odors of eucalyptus and aloe vera drifting past his distracted eyes. He blinks hard, forcing his vision back into focus as he gazes into the cauldron at the mint-green liquid. He allows himself a slight smile, as things are going almost better than he’d anticipated. Slughorn is shuffling around the front of the room, casting brief glances at other students’ work, not concerned with upper-level students. He catches Draco’s eye; he gives the professor a small nod and returns to his own potion, giving it four full stirs around clockwise before turning the heat up a small degree.

He feels at home here, despite the fact that the regular Potions dungeon is still off-limits and they’ve been placed in a smaller room on the other side of the castle. There aren’t too many students approaching a Potions-oriented career, so what might otherwise feel cramped is somewhat cozy and relaxed.

“And what are we working on today, Mister Malfoy?” Slughorn asks as he approaches. Each student had been required to choose their own assignment for the first class. This particular choice sits right in the center of Draco’s capability, not too challenging to be perceived as flashy, but just enough so that it does set him apart from the others.

“It’s a burn salve, but I chose one of the higher-intensity recipes. Tweaked to work twice as fast as it normally would. Hypothetically.”

Slughorn grins, nodding in approval. “Any reason for that choice? Don’t plan on committing arson now, do you?” he says, nudging Draco with an elbow.

He smiles awkwardly. “No, sir. I didn’t have any particular reason for choosing it,” he lies. “It just seemed interesting.”

Slughorn nods again. “Top notch so far,” he says, ambling off to check on others.

Draco turns the heat up yet again, watching his cauldron closely. Ironic that something intended to heal burns requires so much heat.

By the end of the class, he has several vials filled with his “Mungo’s-level burn cure,” as Slughorn had called it, which he carefully wraps in cloth and slips into his bag. One of the best parts of being an eight year student is this kind of freedom; they’re allowed to keep most or all of whatever they brew, so long as Slughorn approves. One never knows when one could use a burn ointment.

As he cleans up the rest of his station, Draco’s mind once again wanders to the Defense class from the previous day. The way he’d meandered through his assignment, waiting to be the last person in the room so he could have a moment to speak with Potter. He has to admit, it has been interesting so far seeing him in a teaching setting. He’s very direct, if somewhat awkward, and the first class had made Draco rethink his notions about “simple” spells like Expelliarmus.

He gasps as he mishandles a knife, nicking the tip of a finger. He sighs, putting the digit between his lips without thinking. He’s been doing more of that lately than he’s used to. Not thinking. That’s what had led him to spend twenty minutes on three sentences about his experience with a first-year level spell. Or maybe it was too _much_ thinking, and not enough deciding? It’s hard to tell. Lately, it seems like emotions have been bubbling to the surface of his mind, threatening to spill over and stain his status quo. It isn’t until he’s leaving the room that things start to click. He bumps into another student and mutters a quick “sorry” before allowing her to pass by, and it’s this one word that makes his heart sink like a bezoar dropped down a well.

Sorry.

 

He’s in that unfamiliar part on the third floor of the castle again, and navigating there from an atypical Potions location had been something of a journey. He doesn’t actually expect to be seen right away, nor does he think Mari will even be there. But something in him had required his presence here. Sometimes your body knows what you need before your brain does.

Again, he finds himself struggling to knock on the door, afraid of feeling like an idiot for being there in the first place. But he remembers the way the door had swung outward and caught him off guard the last time, so he finally forces his knuckles against wood, holding his breath. A second passes and he exhales, shaking his head. Stupid idea. No sounds of movement from inside. _Why would she be here?_

Before he can turn to leave, a gentle voice behind him causes him to jump.

“Draco? Is everything alright?”

He whips around to find Mari, a curious and amused smile on her face. “Didn’t mean to frighten you, sorry about that!”

Draco chuckles at himself, shaking his head. “No, it’s alright. You remember me?” He’s not sure why he asks it, as he’s fairly certain his reputation proceeds him nearly anywhere he could go these days.

She laughs then, too, a high sound like tinkling bells, like fancy silverware being lain on a plate. “Of course I do. We just saw each other two days ago.”

He nods, his face going a little hot. Right. And he’s already back. “I’m sorry for just showing up like this, it’s not something I make a habit of.” Although recently, it feels more and more like his feet take him places before he can even think where he’s going.

“That’s quite alright! I’m glad I caught you, I was actually about to head out for the day.”

“Oh, well don’t let me hold you up. I’ll see you on Sunday, anyway.”

She shakes her head, moving past him to enter the classroom. “Don’t be silly, come in! You need to talk about something.” It isn’t a question.

“Yes,” he answers anyway. “I…I think so?”

She smiles knowingly, closing the door behind him as he enters. “I’m glad you came, then. This room is more or less my office for the time being, but I wasn’t sure you’d know that.”

He frowns. “I didn’t, actually. I sort of just…showed up? And hoped you would be here?”

She laughs again and it helps to smooth over the frayed ends of his nerves. “Why don’t you have a seat? I’m more than happy to talk about whatever it is you need to discuss.”

He slides into a desk, secretly grateful she hasn’t conjured up the same squashy chairs from the other day.

“How does this work, usually?” he asks as she leans against the front of the larger desk across from him. “Just…jump right in?”

She shrugs. “Start wherever you need to, and I’m sure we’ll be able to figure out where to go from there.”

Draco sighs, something tightening in his chest now that he actually has to form the words orbiting his conscience.

“I know everybody hates me,” is what comes out. It’s not what he’d meant to say, though it’s not an entirely inaccurate reflection of his mindset.

“And why do you think that?”

He raises an eyebrow. “You know who I am, right? Who my family is?”

Mari nods. “I know what I’ve heard from the papers and by word of mouth, but I know nothing about who you really are. We’ve only just met, after all.”

“But you’ve heard about the…all of the things I’ve done?”

She sighs. “Listen, Draco. This is a space free of pretense. It’s not my job to judge your past. I wasn’t there, for starters. I didn’t witness any of the stories I’ve heard—and I have heard things, just to be completely transparent. But I don’t know the whole story, I haven’t heard your version of events. I believe it’s highly likely that people _think_ they dislike you because they aren’t able to think the same way.”

He shakes his head, a pit forming in his stomach. “They have a right to hate me. I’ve done some things that…” he says, unable to finish, angry that his eyes are stinging wet. “But I don’t want them to.” He swears internally, feeling childish.

“Not wanting to be hated is a very human feeling, one that some people try to fight back against. I’ve seen and heard of many people who were full of potential, but they gave into people’s skewed opinions of them. They were told they were villains, and that’s what they became, because what other choice did they have?”

He wipes a hand across his eyes. “What are you trying to say?”

“I’m saying you do have a choice. We’re all humans. We make mistakes. Yes, some are bigger than others. Some have repercussions that are less than ideal, or consequences that follow us. Sometimes their permanence is haunting. But when all is said and done, I don’t think there is a single person alive who isn’t deserving of forgiveness, as long as they feel truly sorry.”

There’s that word again. Sorry.

“So I just tell people I’m sorry and they forgive me? Feels highly unlikely.”

Mari shakes her head. “No. It’s not quite that simple. In some cases, words aren’t enough. They can be a good start, or a meaningful punctuation maybe. Really, I think what you need to do is show people you’ve changed. Let them see that the past is the past, and that you’re working on making amends and rebuilding yourself.”

“How am I supposed to do that when every damned person in this castle either avoids me entirely or takes every opportunity to let me know just how much they hate me?!” Draco looks at her, eyes blazing, breath catching in his throat when he sees disappointment on her face. He takes a deep breath, squeezing his eyes shut. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have yelled. I’m not mad at you, I’m just…”

“Overwhelmed?” she guesses. “You have every right to be. Like I said, some mistakes require more serious penance. And I’m sure there are some people who will never be able to shed their perceptions of you, people who don’t have it in them to forgive. But Draco, that’s not your problem. It’s theirs. When all is said and done, that war forced a lot of people to do things they didn’t want to do. Out of necessity, confusion, fear, even just pure survival. At this point, I still don’t know your side of things, but I’m sure there are others out there who would relate to your truth.”

He’s crying openly now, not making a sound but allowing the tears to collect in the corners of his eyes and drop onto the desk below him. “It just feels like too much to ever make up for. What if I’m too broken to fix at all?”

“I think the very fact that you’re here asking me that question tells me that you aren’t.”

A warm silence fills the room, only interrupted by the faint drip of tears onto the desk. It’s become abundantly clear to Draco that Mari knows exactly what his past is just by the way she’s talking to him, or at least an abridged version of the events. He recognizes that it would be irresponsible for her to convince him that he’s done nothing wrong, and maybe that’s why it hurts so much. He’s been tearing himself apart since the war ended, and the person who he was hoping would be able to make him feel better is only confirming the evil of his past deeds. And she’s right. He can’t go around; the only way forward is straight through.

“Are you alright?” she asks after a few moments.

He nods, sniffling. “I just have a lot to think about.”

“It does seem that way. Again, your being here is a very good first step. Changing a whole world’s opinion on you is no easy task. You should take it day by day, person by person. And most importantly, please make sure you’re taking care of yourself.” She stands from her perched position on the desk, crossing around to sit behind it. “I won’t lie to you, it will be a taxing process. But if you work at it, really work at it, and keep coming back to me to check in, I think you’ll be much happier when you leave Hogwarts.”

Draco is grateful that she’d made no move to comfort him physically. Another bout of quiet falls between them as he tries to get his breathing together, his throat sore.

“Thank you,” he finally says, forcing himself to meet her eyes.

She smiles slightly. “You’re welcome. It’s what I’m here for, after all. I hope I’ll be seeing you again at the end of the week?”

He stands. “I think you will,” he says, managing a small grin. He crosses to the door, reaching for the handle when she speaks again.

“Draco? One more thing I think you need to hear. You’re going to have to forgive _yourself,_ too, if you want to get anywhere. Don’t be so hard on yourself, okay?”

He nods, slipping out of the classroom. Despite the external adversity coming at him from every side, Draco has a feeling that his own shadow will be the most challenging thing to face.

 

Draco feels an odd relief at not having to attend any more classes for the day. He worried that a light schedule might give him too much time to think, which is exactly what caused him so much distress over the summer, but it’s feeling more and more like thinking is what he needs to do. If it’s productive thinking, of course. He’s wasted too much time wallowing and wishing things would change. It feels like it’s time to actually do something.

It’s with this mindset he troops around the grounds all afternoon, basking in the sun in its transition from summer to autumn, its slender, warm fingers smoothing the worried lines on his face. And he thinks. He _really_ thinks, too. All of the places he wouldn’t let himself go before, he approaches and asks _why?_ The things that make him nervous, the things that chill his blood and make him want to turn and run. They all congregate in the front of his mind, a symphony of pain and confusion and guilt and more than anything, the desire to make it all just go away.

He eventually finds himself on his back in the grass by the lake. His eyes are shiny, fragments of golden light caught in the beads of water that form at their corners as the sun starts to massage the horizon. Draco wishes he felt different than he did before, wishes that rationalizing everything would make it better. But as much as he tries to deal with the things that plagued his conscience, he knows that there is external work to be done.

Apologies.

He’s never been good at them. Finds that when they are implicit, merely understood, that’s often good enough for him. That won’t be good enough. Not now, not this time.

But how do you apologize to the whole world? How do you apologize to yourself?

 

It’s unlike Draco to be out of his room after hours. But Blaise was awake still, poring over a book as usual and humming to himself. He’d come dangerously close to hexing his roommate, but Draco decided he would rather take a walk and burn off some of his nervous energy.

As if he hadn’t done enough walking and thinking for the day.

Still, after years of living in the castle and prowling the halls at night himself, he feels an odd comfort that comes with the quiet and stillness of the darkness. A calm that evades him otherwise, radiating from faintly flickering candles on the walls and the sighs of sleeping portraits.

He keeps his footsteps silent, his wand lifted in front of him to cast his vision through the darkness. It’s not as if he has any dastardly plans. Nothing like he would’ve gotten into in his youth, anyway.

It does feel strange to think about youth in the past tense.

A suit of armor groans as he passes, startling him. He stops moving, just for a second, taking a deep breath. _Stupid._

When he tries to continue and take a step forward, he frowns when there’s a strange resistance from beneath him. Not enough to prevent motion, but definitely enough that he notices. He takes a step forward. Turns around. Lowers his lit wand to the ground. Frowns.

There’s nothing there. Maybe it’s time to get some sleep. Surely Blaise is in bed by now?

Draco makes to turn again, but this time his feet refuse to leave the ground beneath him. He huffs, thinking he’s lost his mind. He yanks his right leg upward with no success, and when he sets the light against his feet again, he’s shocked to find that the very floor of the castle has grown over his feet.

And it’s creeping up his legs.

Eyes wide, he straightens up and looks around, trying to force his breathing to slow. Panicking is exactly the last thing to do in this situation. It must be some kind of prank, a trick floor that keeps growing until a specific spell is used. Though setting it in the night feels an odd time.

His stomach turns as he remembers his dream from the night prior, his feet planted, a wave of Fiendfyre nearly crashing over him. There’s no fire here, but instead a feeling that something is utterly incorrect—something is _wrong_ —beyond the obvious fact of the floor swallowing his shoes.

He utters a few quiet spells, his chest tightening more and more as his wand sparks and whirs but the stone underneath him doesn’t stop. He can hear it, multiplying and grinding, the castle swallowing him.

_Shit, shit, shit._

He continues to try to pull his legs upward, leaning against the wall next to him for support. Before he can react, the wall follows suit, living stone grasping his wrist. He gasps in pain as it rubs against the bones in his slim wrist, quickly grabbing his wand with his other hand before it’s consumed as well.

A thousand options flurry like a storm in his head, each seemingly as futile as the last. Could he somehow transfigure himself out of it? No, he’s never been good enough with Transfiguration, he might just kill himself in the process. Blast the wall to pieces? It might work, but it comes with the risk of making a scene. Probably a better option than being absorbed into the castle walls.

What he’d heard about the Ravenclaw ghost and ancient magic flashes through his mind for a second, and Draco gets the feeling something sinister is going on in the castle. He also gets the feeling that his arm is close to breaking.

He gasps when he feels the wall start to actually pull him, the stone around his arm up to his shoulder, trying to return to its spot in the wall. The floor is doing the same, his body already straining with the pull from different directions. He almost cries out in pain when his prison starts to tighten, his shoulder dislocating as the castle clamps down.

There’s a crystalline moment, a split second of absolutely clarity, when Draco accepts that this is exactly how he will die. Before meeting any of his goals, before righting any of his myriad wrongs. Silent, alone, in the dark.

In a last ditch effort, he conjures up a happy memory—he has to dig deep for it—and manages to utter “Expecto Patronum” through gritted teeth. He’s unable to conjure one fully formed; _damn me for never properly learning._ But out of pure desperation, he’s able to at least produce a floating silver ball. It illuminates the corridor around him and he almost screams when he realizes his own blood is pouring from the places where his remaining skin makes contact with the cursed stone around him. His whole body is shaking. At some point between casting and this moment, he’d dropped his wand, and he sees that it’s rolled a few feet away as his half-Patronus jets down the hall.

He tries hard not to hold his breath, tries to exhale his pain as solid rock continues to crawl and crush. All cognitive function has ceased, his only thoughts _escape, get out, survive._

There’s an excruciating crunch as the floor rises above his knee, shattering the joint there. Draco can’t help but cry out, tears streaming down his pale face. He can hardly see, the only light coming from the tip of his vacant wand.

_I don’t want to die. Not now. Not like this._

His shoulder and half his torso are completely covered, and he scrambles against the rock with his free hand, instinct kicking in to try to save him with no results.

Draco’s whole body hitches when he sees a light coming from around the corner of the hallway in front of him. He manages to get out a hoarse “help,” but can’t say much else through the pain.

“Oh, fuck,” comes Harry Potter’s voice through the darkness.

He’s right in front of Draco the next instant, eyes and hands fluttering all around, trying to gauge the situation. Draco grits his teeth, so hard he thinks they might break, as his limbs are compressed more and more, his waist screaming as his body is pulled in different directions.

“What—”

“I. Don’t. Know. Just get me out,” Draco says, shocked that his words come out even, if desperate.

Potter starts muttering to himself, swearing intermittently as he works through a plan.

“It’s going to hurt. A lot.”

_“Already there.”_

“Right, okay. Fuck. This is risky and so not legal.”

_“I. Will. Die!”_

Potter stops talking and grabs Draco’s free hand, drawing his wand across it. Draco hardly even notices that his hand splits open, more precious drops of his pure blood crashing to the floor. Potter does the same, wincing.

“Okay, I need you to hold on. I’m going to—”

 _“WHATEVER IT IS, JUST DO IT,”_ he screams, every nerve in his body at its absolute limit.

Potter grabs Draco’s open, bloody hand in his own, takes a deep breath, and turns on the spot. Draco feels the familiar sensation of Apparating, like being forced through a straw, but accompanied by a new feeling in his chest. Something beyond pain. Something that feels empty and hollow and pitch black. He hears a crack as something presses against his neck and the world folds in around him. And he dies.

 

They’re in the hospital wing, Draco’s one functioning limb around Potter’s shoulder, their hands still pressed together, radiating intense heat. Where he should feel everywhere else, there’s nothing. No jagged pain, no head splitting sensation. It’s all gone now.

Far off, he hears Potter scream for help, even though Draco’s head is right next to his. He thinks maybe lights come on. Perhaps there’s other screaming, as well. It’s hard to tell, because he’s slipping away and his eyes are closing despite how hard he tries to keep them open, and then everything is cool and black and there’s no light, just everything pressing in on him from every side and the feeling that he is over.


	8. heal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I'm going to just give a little disclaimer that I am a sl*t for comments and love responding to people (although sometimes I do forget so I apologize for that if I've accidentally ignored you). But yeah please come freak out at me in the comments, nothing makes me happier than seeing people's reactions to my writing (except for the writing itself hehe). Enjoy! <3

Much to his own surprise, Draco wakes up.

He’s laying on his back in bed, and while the sheets are the familiar, scratchy ones from the beds in the Hospital Wing, Draco is confused to find himself in a smaller room, completely by himself.

He almost jumps when the door opens and instead closes his eyes, not quite ready to be “awake” yet. Two people come into the room and the door shuts quickly behind them as they start to argue quietly.

“I know, I _know_ , it was an incredibly stupid thing to do, but if I had gone for help he would’ve died!” It’s Potter, because of course it is.

“I just don’t understand how you even knew to _do_ that. Potter, if the Ministry finds out that you dipped into a forbidden branch of magic like that—”

“Then I’ll face the consequences!” he says, cutting off McGonagall. “He would’ve died,” he repeats, softer.

“I understand that, and I _am_ glad that you managed to save his life. We’ve had too much tragedy as it is. But the repercussions of what you’ve done…Nobody knows what kind of effect this magic has on the user or the recipient. I’m worried about both of you.”

“Whatever happens I’ll figure it out. I always do,” he says. His voice is grim. Draco tries to look as asleep as possible, hoping to get as much information out of the conversation as possible.

“Am I…in trouble?”

Her sigh is audible. “With me? With Hogwarts? No. I’m afraid punishing you might draw more attention to the matter. And, when all is said and done, you saved Mister Malfoy’s life, as you won’t allow me to forget. My hope is that the Ministry has no way of knowing you used blood magic, because it’s so ancient and forbidden that they most likely don’t track it anymore. But what with everything that’s happened in the last few years, I wouldn’t be surprised if they started looking for it again, either.”

There’s a pause, rife with silent tension. A wave of nausea rolled over Draco at the words ‘blood magic,’ and the memory of Potter slicing open his and Draco’s hands flashes through his head. He hadn’t had time to register what actually happened in that moment, but looking back it does have immediately concerning implications. If it’s possible, Draco’s chest tightens even more at the thought of it.

“Whatever the case may be, I’ll cover for you the best that I can. And if luck is on our side, nobody will ever have to find out and whatever you did ends here.”

“Do you really believe that there won’t be any kind of side effects?”

“Of course I don’t believe it. But we can still hope.”

Another pause. The sensation that he’s being watched.

“I must say…even though what you did is dastardly, it also took a lot of powerful magic on your part. I would be lying if I said I wasn’t impressed.”

“I only did what I had to do.”

Draco’s heart trips up a bit. She was trying to compliment Potter, and he completely brushed it off. Not exactly behavior of someone with an oversized ego.

”Regardless, I am concerned but impressed with your knowledge on the subject. Am I to assume that Miss Granger may also be involved?”

“Er…”

“You know what? Don’t tell me,” she says. “I don’t need to know the details or your reasoning for looking into this in the first place. You got lucky that it came in handy and that you were able to execute such a difficult maneuver without any kind of practice. But please, promise me that this is the end.”

“Yes, of course,” he says. Draco can’t exactly tell what Potter’s tone indicates, aside from guilt. There’s something else, too.

“Professor,” Potter starts suddenly, “I don’t really know how to put this but…what’s going on with the castle? With Malf—Draco being attacked, the ghosts acting out, that student who had the run-in with the statue…”

Now it really feels as if he shouldn’t be listening in on the conversation. On the other hand, he’d almost just died due to some mysterious force, so he feels a bit like he’s owed an explanation.

“We’re…looking into it,” she says, closing the conversation. “Potter, you really should get some rest.”

“I don’t want him to be alone when he wakes up.”

Draco’s chest constricts again. Is it possible that Potter actually has some empathy in that big head of his? Draco runs through everything he knows about the other boy, all of the things he’d always assumed were true, but tries to look at them from a different, more neutral lens. It had always seemed like he was obsessed with the spotlight, always needed to be the big hero, but now…

Though he still doesn’t understand the full implications, what Draco does know is that Potter did something powerful, dangerous, and _very_ illegal just to save his life, without even stopping to think about himself.

“Very well. I know better by now than to try to convince you otherwise when you have an idea in your head.” There’s almost a fondness in her voice. “Don’t make me regret letting you off,” she says, again with a strange familiar levity, as the door opens and closes again and she’s gone.

Draco remains very still, trying to even out his shaky breathing as he hears Potter sit down in a chair next to him. It’s only now that he realizes just how much pain he’s in. Every limb but his left arm seems to be shattered all the way down to the innermost joint. His ribs are probably all cracked. If he concentrates hard enough, he swears he can feel his torn muscles coming back together. He gags thinking about the amount of Skele-Gro he’ll have to choke down just to be able to walk again. If he’s able to walk again at all.

Somehow, despite his overactive mind and every nerve in his body screaming, he manages to drift off to sleep again.

 

* * *

 

He isn’t sure how much time passes before he wakes up. The pain has subsided a fraction when his eyes finally open, the dim, cool light of the private room not too harsh. Potter is asleep in the chair next to him. He stayed.

There’s a glass of water on the stand next to his bed, so he attempts to reach for it with his good arm, reaching past the Skele-Gro he’d predicted.

He almost drops the glass when Potter suddenly wakes up, making a noise between a gasp and a snort. Instead of responding, he raises the glass to his lips and drains it, hardly stopping to breathe. His body feels as if it’s been sucked completely dry. Potter’s eyes are on him the whole time, but he relishes in the cool liquid. He can wait.

“You’re awake.”

“Very astute.”

“How do you feel?” he asks, not rising to Draco’s sarcasm.

“Like death.”

“Yeah, that’ll be the, uh…”

Draco sets the glass down, waiting for him to finish. When he doesn’t, Draco asks, “Can you tell me what the bloody hell is going on?”

“You mean hearing my conversation with McGonagall didn’t explain enough?”

His face flushes. “How did you know I—”

“I’ve had plenty of practice pretending to be asleep,” Potter says, not at all angry about it, oddly enough.

“Fine, I was eavesdropping. But I feel like I have the right to know what just happened to me, _especially_ after hearing that _blood magic_ was involved?”

Potter holds up his hands to stop him, nodding. “You do. Let me explain.” He sighs, scratching the back of his neck. “To get what’s still unknown out of the way, it’s unclear to me what exactly happened with the castle. I don’t know how much you heard or what you’ve processed, but it does seem that McGonagall has an idea about what’s going on.”

“But she won’t share with you.”

He shakes his head, his face grim. “Things are a little bit scary right now, so I get it. It’s just frustrating, because I want to help.”

“Like you did with me?”

“Right. You. Ah, how do I put this gently…Draco, I killed you.”

He blinks at Potter. Potter blinks back.

“I assume you had good reason for doing so,” Draco says, not at all buying it.

“I did!” Potter says quickly, shifting in his chair. “There were a few factors in play. I couldn’t think of a quick way to get you out that didn’t involve losing limbs, but Hermione has been studying Hogwarts as an entity pretty thoroughly since we’ve come back, and she just happened to tell me about this sort of loophole that was put in place after the battle…” He trails off for a second. “Sorry. The loophole is that, er, you can Apparate inside the castle grounds, but only if you have physical contact with…a corpse.”

Draco squeezes his eyes shut. “I…what?”

“I know, I thought the same thing at first. But there were, you know, a lot of deaths during the battle, and it became too much of a bother to have to move them the old-fashioned way. So some of the professors managed some really dense magic in order to bypass the limits.”

It made enough sense, he supposes.

“There’s more,” Draco prompts.

“Well, yeah. In order to make it work, you had to be dead.”

“But I’m talking to you right now.”

“Right. And that’s where the…the blood magic comes in. I don’t fully understand what it is that I did—”

“Perfect—”

“— _but_ my basic understanding is that I more or less stole your magical core.”

“My _what_?”

Potter scrunches up his face. “It’s hard to explain because it’s so abstract, but think of it sort of as your soul, or something like that. It’s the intangible thing that makes you _you_ , and also what allows you to do magic.”

“Then how did you steal it?”

“The blood magic,” he says, like it should be obvious that _that’s_ what blood magic is used for. “I briefly housed your magic inside my own, sort of, then Apparated us to the Hospital Wing and allowed it to pass back into you. It was really scary, actually. You came to for a second but then knocked off again. I thought that I…”

“Killed me for good?” So Potter really _had_ ended his life in the most literal sense?

Potter just nods.

“Well, you can’t get rid of me that easily, it seems.”

A silence passes between them. Potter refills the glass with the pitcher on the table, not speaking the whole time.

It makes Draco want to rip his fucking hair out. How could Potter _possibly_ be this nice to him after…everything?

“McGonagall said something about after effects,” Draco says, taking the glass from Potter.

“Right. It’sa possibility. I know it’s already pretty clear, but I really don’t know the full extent of what I had to do to save you. It might mess with both of our magic. It might change absolutely nothing. I think only time will tell. Even Hermione doesn’t have any solid theories.”

Draco nods. From what he knows, that means they’ve hit a dead end for now. He opens his mouth to say something, but instead takes another long sip of water.

“Thank you,” he finally says. Potter looks surprised.

“You’re…you’re welcome? Are you not furious? I thought there would be a lot more swearing, maybe even an attempt or two to curse my trousers off…”

“Why would I be angry? Whatever you did, it saved me. I’m still here, aren’t I? Unless I _have_ died and this is some kind of personal hell.” He allows just the slightest smile to let Potter know he’s kidding. It takes him a second to catch it, but when he does, he grins back.

“I think I may have technically soiled your status as a Pureblood,” he says, the smile fleeing. Potter’s eyes are glued to the floor. “You know, because I had to have so much of our blood mix for the spell to work. I know in terms of bloodline in doesn’t make a difference, but I know there are some cases where something minor like that actually makes a difference…”

Draco exhales deeply. Shrugs. Thinks of what his father would say if he found out. “Worse things have happened.” He looks at this hand and sees that there’s a scar across his palm, already fading but something that he’ll likely have for the rest of his life. He figures Potter must have one similar.

Potter looks back up at him, bewildered. “I honestly can’t believe this. Did the castle squeeze your head too?” Draco catches him look at his own hand, and he can see that he does, in fact, have a matching scar.

Draco laughs. “I believe my brush with death has brought about some new perspective for me, Potter.”

There’s another few moments of quiet, still and pure.

“That first Defense class…” Draco starts stupidly, regretting the words as soon as they fill the empty air. No choice but to keep talking. “I stayed after the way I did because…Well, because I was going to try to apologize. And I figured not even you would be so thick as to not realize that something was going on, which is why I’m confirming that now,” he says, trying to keep his tone light. “But I…don’t know what to do now.”

“What do you mean?”

He scoffs. “What do I _mean_? I’ve been nothing but evil to you for nearly a decade, I…” He stops himself before he really hashes out the extent of his wrongdoing. Maybe another time. “And then you just risk your life, possibly your education, your _career_ , to save my life? I don’t get it.”

Potter suddenly looks serious. “Look, Draco, at the end of the day, nobody deserves to die that way. I would’ve done it for anybody.”

“That’s not the point.”

“Then what is?”

“I just…don’t know how I can ever make this up to you. I already felt like I had to jump through hoops just to say that I’m sorry about my entire past, and then you add this on top, and—”

“Are you saying you wish I’d let you die?” he asks, sitting forward brows knit together.

“No! No, it’s not that. I just…”

“I’m going to stop you right there, Draco,” Potter says. Draco squirms. It’s bizarre to hear Potter call him by his first name. “The past is…well, it’s the past, alright? I’m not saying that I can forget all of the things you’ve done, but I also have to admit that my opinion of you was always formed by a very black-and-white moral compass and a biased opinion of Slytherins as a whole. Now, I assume you had your reasons for everything you did. I do know a little bit about you, after all, I…happened to learn some things throughout the years. I don’t need to _hear_ your reasons—they do nothing for either of us now. But I think we should just put it all behind us and start over.”

It feels like a punch in the gut. But a warm one, a soft blow that wakes him up rather than knocking his lights out. Draco feels his face flushing, unsure of how much exactly Potter knows about his life.

“You would just—”

“I am _not_ giving you a free pass. You’ve not only been a prat, but at times a downright _evil_ prat. But since we’ve come back to Hogwarts, I…I don’t know. Something just feels different. So you know how you can make this up to me? Prove to me that you’ve changed. That I shouldn’t have regrets about saving you the way I did. _That’s_ how you can make it up to me.”

Draco realizes he’s been holding his breath, so he lets it out slowly. “Potter, that’s extremely generous of you. I…I know I don’t deserve—”

“Hey. Just. Don’t do that. I’m not saying we’re gonna be best mates and play Exploding Snap together between classes—”

“Right—”

“—but I’m tired of fighting, Draco. I really am. I’m just exhausted, and I can’t afford to spend any energy bickering and keeping up some stupid juvenile rivalry with you. Which means, yes, you sort of get a second chance. Don’t waste it,” he says curtly, standing.

Draco can’t do anything but nod, still shocked. Despite the gravity of his words, there’s also a lack of animosity.

“Oh, and Draco?” Harry says as he opens the door to leave. “Please, just call me Harry. You say my last name like it’s a bloody unforgivable curse, and I’ve heard enough of those for a lifetime.” The door swings shut and Draco’s head collapses back onto the pillow. He’s going to need an appointment with Mari.

 

* * *

 

It isn’t until he wakes up from his next bout of sleep that Draco wonders why he’s still at Hogwarts in the first place. If he had _literally_ died, he feels perhaps that might warrant a short visit to St. Mungo’s. But he’s no expert on healing.

He then wonders where it is that he’s being housed if not the Hospital Wing. There’s a window in the room, but the way he’s angled only allows him to see open, blue sky, so he can’t even surmise his location based on what’s outside.

His pain has already subsided a good amount, luckily, but he can tell it’s largely in part to painkilling magic and not because of actual healing. Draco eyes the still smoking glass of Skele-Gro next to him, taking a deep breath. He doesn’t know when it was poured or how long it’s been sitting there, but it has to be done. He thinks about all that he’s missing already in the first week of classes, and that’s enough to guide his good hand toward the glass. He throws it back as quickly as he can, nearly gagging at the taste. Still, he has to be grateful that his bones are just horribly broken and not gone entirely. He’s heard regrowing bones is painful business.

As he switches to the glass of water to wash down the bitterness, he can’t help but think that there has to be a way to make it a less scarring experience to take the potion. So many medicinal potions have been developed that, yes, work wonders and put wizards ages ahead of Muggle medicine, but there’s never any concern for how they taste. A minor concern at best, for some, but Draco remembers refusing to take medicine when he was younger purely because he knew it would taste bad. In fact, his mother used to have to physically restrain him just to get him well again.

“Draco?”

He almost breaks his neck with how fast he turns it toward the door, his mother looking at him as if he’s dead. Which. Well.

“Mother? What are you doing here?”

She approaches the bed, her eyes glassy.

“The headmistress told me what happened and I got here as soon as I could. I…” She isn’t able to finish as she finally gets a good look at Draco, her legs refusing to hold her up any longer as she collapses into the chair that Potter—Harry—had been sitting in earlier. He isn’t sure if there’s any damage to his face, but he _can_ see the large patches of bruising and healing tears in his skin, so he can’t blame her.

“She said it was bad, but Draco…”

He reaches out to take her hand, squeezing it. “I know how it looks, but things could be a lot worse. What…what did she tell you?”

She wipes at her eyes with a kerchief, pursing her lips. “Just that there was some kind of collapse in one of the corridors, and that…Harry Potter was the one who saved you.”

Alright. So she hadn’t been told the _whole_ truth. For now, Draco thinks it best to keep it that way.

“Draco, are you safe here?”

He sighs. “It was a freak accident, mother.” Not entirely untrue. “Things like this don’t happen often, and after everything last year, there are just some parts of the castle that aren’t holding up like they used to.”

She nods but doesn’t look convinced. “They told me that you would be able to stay here and heal, but it really looks like you should be transferred—”

“I know,” he says, interrupting. “I know how concerning things seem, but really, I’m going to be alright, probably in just a day or so.”

She looks down at her hands and takes a deep breath. “You’re sure? And what about the classes you’re missing?”

Draco can’t help but smile, which earns him a reproachful look. “Sorry, it’s just…I’m grateful for a reminder that I’m my mother’s son.”

She looks taken aback, but after a moment she also smiles. She stands, brushes the hair out of his face and kisses his forehead. Narcissa Malfoy had never been an affectionate woman, but Draco can see how the war changed her. That, and her husband…well…He’s already in enough pain. No point in going into that right now.

“Er, odd question, but could you tell me exactly where it is that I am?” he asks her as she returns to the chair.

She frowns, but then seems to understand. “You are in the Hospital Wing, actually. I believe this is where Madam Pomfrey usually sleeps.”

Draco almost sits up at that. “What?”

She nods, looking around. “She’s kept it very plain for a bedroom, but we’re right next to her office at the back of the wing. Now that you mention it, I do have to wonder why she’s isolated you.”

To avoid paranoia. Rumors. Things like that. It makes sense to him.

“Maybe it’s just because of the extent of my injuries. She didn’t want to risk anything happening out with the rest of the people being treated.”

She holds his gaze for a second. “Yes, I suppose it has to be something along those lines. Draco, are you sure you’re alright? Not just physically, but, you know…”

He clears his throat, trying not to blush. “As a matter of fact, I’ve sort of been…seeing a therapist.”

His mother’s eyes widen. “Oh? That’s…nice.”

“It’s only been twice now, but she…you know, has been helping me through some things.”

He can see her grappling with the information. Seeking external help—especially _emotional_ assistance—is unheard of in Pure-blood society.

“I’m proud of you,” she decides, “and I hope it continues to be helpful.” She ends with a nod, as if convincing herself that she’d said the right thing. He can’t help but smile again.

“Thank you, mother.”

“And it’s true that it was the Potter boy who saved you?”

He tries to dissect her tone, but if there’s one thing his mother is good at, it’s forced neutrality.

“Yes,” he says, giving her space to say more if she wants to. She doesn’t. She just sniffs and nods, standing again.

“I would stay longer, but I think it’s best if you get some rest. And Draco, I…I would really appreciate it if you would write me more often, once you’re better,” she says, hardly able to maintain eye contact. “It gets a bit lonely in the Manor, you know, and with your—”

“Mother,” he says gently. “I will. I promise.”

She loosens up almost instantly, exhaling. “Thank you, darling.” She turns to leave, but turns back around with her hand on the door handle. “Draco? I love you,” she says, her eyes wet again.

“I love you, too,” he says back, trying to ignore the tightness in his chest. She smiles and gives him a little wave, and then she’s gone.

 

* * *

 

The next two days are two of the blandest days in Draco’s life. Madam Pomfrey denies him leave from bed, even though he’ll never be able to get up and walk again if he doesn’t give it a damn try. She insists that his bones are still too fragile.

“Skele-Gro is a powerful potion, Mister Malfoy, but it isn’t a miracle overnight cure. It still needs time.”

So bed it is. He’s lucky enough that Blaise is willing to deliver his work to him. For most of his courses, working from bed is not an issue. However, for things like Herbology and especially Potions, it feels like he’s just losing time. The second day of his residency, he considers writing to Mari to see if she’ll visit him, but that feels like overkill. He can pay her a visit as soon as he’s well again, which should be before his next scheduled appointment anyway.

The problem is, he can’t stop thinking about the conversation he’d had with…Harry. Right, Harry. It’s still odd thinking of him that way. For years, they’d been on a strict and vicious last-name basis, and he’d just come in and blown that to bits. _Everything_. He would really put it in the past, just like that. Draco’s been working himself into a fit about how he’s going to start convincing the world he isn’t still trying to end it, and Harry Potter had been at the top of that list. Or, maybe the bottom. It depends what the list is. Harry would be at the top of the list of people Draco _needs_ to apologize to, and at the bottom of the ones he’s ready to.

And now, all of that is completely unnecessary. Granted, Harry is just one person. But if _he_ can see Draco as something more than a monster without Draco so much as giving him an explicit apology, it gives him hope for others. And it also confuses him immensely.

Their conversation plays on loop in his head during his third day of bed rest, distracting him from the essay he’s trying to write on the burn salve he’d concocted during his last attended class. Not at all like his usual work ethic. Then again, he’s not usually writing his essays from an isolated room tucked behind the Hospital Wing.

Pot— _Harry_ , had seemed so hot and cold. Draco does suppose he’d given him the wrong impression and sounded ungrateful for his saving him, but in his defense the circumstances overall were absolutely bizarre. There’s something else, too, something Draco can’t place but also something he can’t shake. It feels something like a seed of a larger realization, but there are too many things going on in his head to really nourish it.

When it comes down to it, he can’t seem to avoid the utterly bizarre wish that he was…Harry Potter’s friend.

He feels insane even _thinking_ about it. But…there’s something about Harry that is unconditionally compassionate and caring, albeit maybe a bit blind and naive. Still, there’s such a pure quality to that. It makes Draco wonder where he would be now had he seen it earlier. If he hadn’t written the other boy off as haughty, pompous, privileged. If he hadn’t been so scathing in their meeting moments all those years ago…

Blaise clears his throat and Draco gasps, dropping his quill. He’d completely forgotten that he’d volunteered to stay for a while, he’s been so quiet.

“It’s Friday afternoon, so there isn’t much else I could be doing,” he’d explained. “Plus, you’re always very subdued when you work, so I know I can get things done in here without distraction.”

Draco is a model student, especially now that he doesn’t have the threats of an insane wizard terrorist looming over him. But Blaise is too dedicated to his studies even by Malfoy standards. Still, he’s sort of the closest thing Draco has to a friend right now. He can’t see himself speaking to Pansy anytime soon, all of the other Slytherins are much younger, and most of the world still hates him. Maybe he should be making more of an effort with Blaise, now that he thinks about it…

He’s about to ask Blaise how his first week of classes was when there’s a commotion from out in the Hospital Wing. Someone is shrieking in pain, and there are a few other voices also shouting. He sits up straighter as the noise starts to get closer. Even Blaise looks up in concern.

The door to Madam Pomfrey’s room flies open and the world bursts into chaos. Madam Pomfrey herself is there, carefully ushering in a younger looking student who is obviously the source of the screaming. His entire body is covered in black flames, and he can barely walk. He collapses onto the ground as soon as he enters.

McGonagall is there, and Harry Potter brings up the rear and closes the door behind them. The three of them are shouting suggestions at each other, panicked.

“Mister Zabini, out, now!” McGonagall shouts over the student’s screams. Blaise nods and makes a swift exit, leaving Draco stunned in bed, every nerve buzzing.

“What haven’t we tried?” Harry says, his voice high and tight. Draco is shocked to see he’s crying.

“Nothing, Potter, we’ve tried _everything_ ,” Madam Pomfrey says, her eyes impossibly wide. “Water, up-to-neck burial, oxygen deprivation. It won’t stop, and it seems it’s not doing damage at the same rate as normal fire would but it’s just as painful. Experts from Mungo’s have been alerted and will be here as soon as they can be, but they’re backed up today!”

Instantly, he has an idea. “In my bag!” Draco shouts, pointing next to his bed. All three of them look up at him, as if they’d forgotten he was still there. “There’s a vial of green liquid.”

Harry rushes over and roots through it, pulling the vial out.

“What is it?” Madam Pomfrey calls as Harry brings it to her.

The boy’s constant screaming is enough to short-circuit Draco’s mind; it’s clear he’s in immense pain.

“Burn salve,” he manages.

“No use,” she fires back, disappointed. “That wouldn’t work until the fire is out, and there isn’t enough to cover his whole body!”

“Have him drink it,” Draco says tentatively. It’s just a hunch, but he’d changed the recipe for the potion and has a pretty good idea of how it functions.

“Salves are for external use,” McGonagall shouts.

“Just trust me!”

There’s a singular moment of pause where the world freezes, save for wails of pain. Then Madam Pomfrey shakes her head, swears under her breath, and rips the cork out of the vial.

“Drink, boy!”

Even through the torture, the boy is able to raise the vial to his lips and gulp down the salve. Draco holds his breath, sincerely hoping he’d made the right call.

Nothing happens.

He starts to feel panicked himself. And then. The flames don’t die down, but they do start to change color, from black, too white, to blue, to orange. McGonagall whips out her wand and screams “ _Aguamenti_ ,” dousing the boy and extinguishing the flames completely. Oddly, his clothes are untouched, but his skin is red and blistered everywhere. Madam Pomfrey calls for someone to bring one of the cots into the room for him as McGonagall casts some lightweight drying charms.

Draco now realizes with a start that the boy is one of the few remaining Slytherins. He remembers him from the train; he’d been so scared. David is his name, Draco thinks. And he has an older sister, too, also a Slytherin.

When things have settled, Draco takes a deep breath, trying to stop his head from spinning. He’s grateful to still be in bed, as he feels faint, and quite feels like crying himself for some reason. His throat is sore from the effort of not allowing himself too. That would be foolish. Everything is fine now.

“Mister Malfoy,” McGonagall says, approaching. “Where did you get that potion?”

He can’t tell if she’s furious or just coming down from the panic, but he figures there’s no point in lying. “I-I made it, professor. In Slughorn’s Potions class on Tuesday.”

She purses her lips, nodding. “Duly noted. Good work.”

Draco wants to smile, but he just nods in return and exhales deeply. Harry slumps into the chair Blaise had been in, still crying.

“What…what happened?” Draco asks gently.

Harry looks at him, his green eyes shining. “One of the bloody wall braziers somehow went rogue and attacked him. I thought—” he’s cut off by a stifled sob. He shakes his head. “I don’t know why this is affecting me so much. I think it’s because everything I did was absolutely useless, I’ve never felt so _useless_ in my life…”

Draco looks on, unsure of what to say.

“Thank you,” Harry says.

“For what?”

“You saved his life. He’s just a second year, I can’t even imagine if you hadn’t had that salve lying around.”

“Well…you’re welcome, I guess. He’s a Slytherin, I…I hope he’s alright. I know his sister will be worried.” He remembers how protective of her brother she had been. Joetta is her name, Draco recalls.

Harry nods. “I think he will be now that the flames are out. The burns look pretty bad but some healers from St. Mungo’s will be here soon and he’ll be in great hands then.” He’s stopped crying now, his eyes still red, hair ruffled from the ordeal, and now…smiling gently out of relief. Draco’s heart catches in his throat for some reason. Seeing him in another, softer light, so vulnerable and honest…It’s making Draco feel things, but they’re confusing things so he decides to ignore them. Or at least try.

“You wouldn’t happen to have any more of that salve, would you?” Madam Pomfrey asks, joining them by the bed.

He shakes his head. “Unfortunately, no. I only took the one vial.”

“That’s quite alright,” she says, sighing. “He should be off any minute now. Was just wondering if there was anything we could do to ease the pain in the meantime. Oh, and…bang up job, boy. Not just on the potion, but on the decision making. You may very well have been the difference between life and, well, you know…”

Draco can’t help but grin, proud of himself and happy to help.

“How are _you_ feeling, in any case?”

He moves his limbs around for a moment, trying to gauge his pain. “I think I’m just about healed, actually.”

“Good, good,” she says, distracted. “Seems like it might be about time for you to be on your way, then.” She looks behind her at the boy on the cot, who Draco notices is now either sleeping or unconscious. “Ah, right, figured it might be best to put him out for a little while. Full-body burns are no fun at all.”

“Is there anything else I can do?” Harry asks, standing up. The vulnerability isn’t gone, but shelved away, determination taking its place. Madam Pomfrey pats him on the shoulder.

“No, no, thank you Harry. You did very well, today, you know? Handled all of that with a lot of grace. Actually, now that I think of it, would you mind escorting Mister Malfoy here back into the real world?”

Harry nods, shooting Draco a hint of a smile.

“You’re up to it, yeah?” she asks Draco, just to be sure.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Perfect, off you go, then!”

Draco swings his legs out of bed, cautiously getting to his feet. His muscles are stiff and sore, and suddenly having to support his weight puts even more strain on them. He grimaces as his knees start to buckle. Harry lurches forward, catching him under his arms and pulling him back up.

“Are you sure you’re good to go?” he murmurs, watching as Madam Pomfrey tends to the other boy.

Draco pulls back, unsettled by the sudden contact and closeness.

“I can’t hide away in the Hospital Wing forever,” he says. He’d considered it. The castle that had once felt more or less like a safe space now makes him anxious. He doesn’t know what’s happening, but the frequency of these incidents makes him worry that something is very wrong with Hogwarts.

“Alright,” Harry says, barely a whisper. He throws Draco’s bag over his shoulder. “May I?” he asks, pointing to Draco’s arm. He understands and allows Harry to drape his arm around his shoulders, guiding Draco out of the room and into the fray of Hogwarts.

The hallways are practically deserted. Draco guesses that the word of this new incident has spread quickly and people either escaped to the supposed safety of their own rooms or chose to be outside on this beautiful September afternoon. Plus, it’s Friday. The first week of class is finished, students are likely out on the grounds relaxing and celebrating things being normal again. Draco wishes he could relate.

They walk to Ravenclaw Tower in silence. Comfortable silence. They do pass a few students on the way, all of whom do double takes. And Draco doesn’t suppose that his being in pajamas is the reason.

Harry is a very good support, and Draco finds that he’s glad he has Harry’s help. He’d always considered the other boy sort of scrawny and insignificant, but with his arm around Harry’s shoulders, he feels a sturdiness that he hadn’t been expecting.

“Well, here we are,” Harry says when they get to the door. He gives Draco his bag and steps back, looking at the ground. “Thanks again for what you did today. I know it may just seem like it was the right thing to do, but I know some people would’ve frozen up, or made a different choice, or… Well, you get the point. It was brave and admirable.”

Draco nods, his throat tightening again. Unsure of what to say, he just sticks out his hand. Harry looks up, grinning, and shakes Draco’s hand.

“To new beginnings?” Draco proposes.

“Sure thing,” Harry says. He smiles at Draco, and then he’s off.

 

* * *

 

Joetta is in hysterics in the Ravenclaw Common Room when Draco enters. A few sympathetic Ravenclaw girls and one boy as well are sitting around her, trying to calm her down. Others are not as willing to accommodate her grief and are shooting her dirty looks.

She looks up when Draco comes in and stops crying for a moment.

“Y-you! You just came from the Hospital Wing, didn’t you? My brother, David, is he—”

“He’s going to be fine,” Draco says, smiling gently. She bursts into tears again, this time out of relief, he assumes. Draco figures he owes it to her to sit down and explain the situation, so he does. He tries to play down his own involvement; even though Harry had told him he was brave, it really did just feel like the thing to do. Joetta disagrees with Draco on this, proclaiming him a hero and thanking him over and over for saving her brother.

Once she’s calmed down and thanked Draco one last time, she gives him a hug and a few of the Ravenclaws take her for a walk to blow off some steam. Draco feels a strange twinge of something as he sees a Slytherin arm-in-arm with a Ravenclaw. There’s a small part of him, way in the back of his mind, that tells him that this isn’t how things are supposed to be. He tells that part to shut it.

 

* * *

 

He finds his room empty, Blaise most likely in the library. Good. For now, Draco needs to decompress from the events of the last few days. He realizes how lucky they’ve gotten that no irreversible damage has been done, but the fact that these aren’t isolated incidents certainly concerns him.

While taking a shower, he starts to theorize about what might be happening. All of the happenings seem to be much too dark and dangerous to be done by a student, but then again, he himself has done some abhorrent things in his adolescence. Still, it doesn’t feel like that. He doesn’t know much about the other victims, but there’s no obvious pattern. David is a Slytherin with Draco as well, but he remembers the very first girl who’d been attacked was a Hufflepuff, and Ravenclaw’s ghost has also been out of control.

Hmm. That does leave Gryffindor. Though he doesn’t wish anything like what he’d suffered through upon anybody, he has to admit it would be comforting to eliminate the Gryffindor House as a potential perpetrator entirely, which would leave…Beauxbatons. Wait a minute. That feels more likely. The motive? Who knows. Hogwarts has been nothing but accommodating to them since they arrived, but maybe there’s some kind of grudge that precedes all recent events.

He wishes the answer was more obvious. And then again, there’s that conversation he’d overheard between Harry and McGonagall his first day in the Hospital Wing. Could it be that no wizard is directly responsible at all? Is there just something wrong with Hogwarts? He feels almost responsible for getting to the bottom of things now that he’s so entwined in them, but with no solid leads it just feels fruitless right now.

Once dressed in fresh clothes, he realizes just how hungry he is and decides to head to the Great Hall. It’s a bit early for dinner, but he’d like to avoid having the eyes of the entire school on him. At Hogwarts, word goes around.

Sure enough, on his way there, almost every person he passes gives him a strange look. Strange because….they aren’t disapproving? He doesn’t see one glare, one sneer. He hears some whispers as he passes groups of people about how he’d saved someone, even after being attacked himself. A few mentions of Harry Potter’s name as well. One or two people even manage to smile at him.

Draco is stunned walking through the halls, so much so that he almost tramples someone as he turns a corner.

“Hey, watch where you’re—Oh, Draco!”

He laughs out loud. It’s Mari.

“We really need to stop doing this,” he says, causing her to giggle as well.

“I have to agree. You know, I’ve heard some things. Are you doing alright? I mean, physically, let’s start there.”

“Couldn’t be better,” he says, grinning. It’s not fully true, but it feels like peak performance is just around the corner.

“Alright then, so on to the more difficult question.”

He bites at the inside of his cheek. “You wouldn’t happen to be free right now, would you?”

She smiles and shakes her head. “I am, actually.”

Draco’s stomach growls and he grabs his stomach, his cheeks turning red.

“Let’s go,” she says, turning him around. “I’ve got snacks in my office, and it sounds like we have a lot to talk about.”

For the first time, he’s looking forward to it.


	9. weightless

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to point out that I wrote this 13k chapter in one single, multi-hour sitting last night. I think I entered some kind of fugue state as the spirit of Drarry flowed through me, and it was really magical and reminded me so much of why I like writing. I hope things don't feel too rushed in this chapter, and if they do then at least they feel realistically so. It's supposed to be sort of fast moving and a bit of a rollercoaster but you know I'm so close to the writing that I'm never really sure if it's coming across the right way.
> 
> Also, just a mild TW for one little moment of untargeted homophobic language. Just a few slurs/less than friendly words to describe gay men, but not directed at anybody.
> 
> Finally, I will just put myself out there and beg for comments as I always do. Especially on a chapter like this where I feel I've put a lot of myself and my own experience into it, it's just nice to see a response to that. Ok I'm done babbling now. Enjoy a slightly more angsty but ultimately hopeful chapter!! <3

The rumors of Draco Malfoy not only saving a second year’s life—but also that he’d been seen hanging on to Harry Potter for dear life immediately following the debacle—start to circulate around Hogwarts quickly. And Harry has never wanted to tear out his hair more.

Granted, he’s had years of being in the public eye and lots of practice ignoring the stares, the pointing fingers, the vapid whispering as people pass. But as he’d only _just_ propositioned the idea that him and Draco didn’t have to be mortal enemies anymore, the sudden focus on the two of them being seen together in what has been called a “compromising” position certainly puts stress on that right out of the gate. The rumors have developed into pure fiction as they so often do. Latest he’s heard, Harry had cradled Draco Malfoy in his arms through the halls of Hogwarts while being chased down by a fire demon, which Draco finally managed to vanquish from the comfort of Harry Potter’s masculine embrace.

Hey, at least the student body is giving Draco credit where credit is due.

Harry has been on edge in the days following the attack of David Winslow. While the incident didn’t end in disaster as he heard it would as it was happening, he can’t shake the feeling that something sinister is happening around Hogwarts. He can tell McGonagall is withholding something rather important, and he wishes so badly that she would tell him what’s going on. He wants to help. Hogwarts is the first place he ever felt at home, and if something is wrong… Well, Harry just won’t stand for that.

Something else potentially concerning Harry has noticed is how strange and mutable his moods have been in the past few days. After his first Defense class with the younger crowd on Thursday, he’d been expecting to feel incredible, as it went swimmingly. And overall, he does feel a lot more confident going into his second session with the older students. But every so often, a little stab of something cuts through the joy, the confidence. A twang of sadness. A dash of regret. And when they happen, he finds that they really sour his mood altogether. He’s worried that his friends have started to notice. The last thing he needs is to push them away right now.

Just leftover things from the war that he hasn’t dealt with yet, he supposes. With teaching, taking classes, and Quidditch tryouts coming up in the afternoon, his mind hasn’t been in one place for much time these days.

Harry walks into his classroom and a hush blankets the room. He’s not sure if he’ll ever get used to that. He surveys the room to see if anybody is missing. Hermione and Ron are sitting attentively and setting a good example. He smiles at a few of his friends as he scans, and then makes eye contact with Draco, who gives him a sort of half smile and then looks away.

He can see that Leon is staring him down. It’s like those beautiful, honey-gold eyes are boring into his skull, trying to get inside his head. Harry tries to ignore the sensation, but it’s really quite distracting. He ultimately refuses eye contact.

“Alright. Well, here we are! Er…second class, yeah? Everybody have a good first week?”

There are a few affirmative murmurs, and he shakes his head.

“Can I just be honest with you lot?” Harry asks as he sits on the edge of his desk. Faces around the room darken, eyes that had been elsewhere snap to him.

“I…I do appreciate the respect that you’ve shown me so far. It’s admirable that you would treat one of your peers that way without much precedent.”

“Saving the world is a pretty good precedent!” says an undetermined voice from the middle of the room. There’s a round of quiet laughter which Harry allows himself to partake in.

“Fine. No use in being humble and denying that, I suppose.” He has no idea where all of this confidence is coming from. There’s a warmth spreading through his chest and his head is so clear. He hasn’t felt this great since he took Felix Felicis during sixth year. “My point is, I fear that for some of you, the respect borders on fear. Or maybe awe. Or some kind of combination. And that just won’t do for me. When I accepted this position, I did so under the pretense that I could still be a normal teenager, you know, and finish my education here like the rest of you. And if a dramatic silence befalls the room every time I enter it…It just doesn’t feel right.”

He looks around, seeing lots of people nodding along furiously. He puts his head in his hands for a second, sighing.

“Listen, I’m not saying that this time every week is just going to be a free-for-all, right? That would be a disaster. But all of this…Maybe I’m not making sense. I suppose I’m just asking you to treat me like I’m not a professor—which I’m _not_ to begin with!”

“Can you just get on with the bloody teaching?” Ron shouts. That shifts the mood almost immediately as most people begin to laugh again, while a few mutter complaints that comments like that would get points docked in any other class.

“Alright, fine! But do we have an understanding? I’m not Professor Potter. I’m just Harry.” Nobody responds, so he squeezes his eyes shut and jumps in. “Anyway, today’s lesson is going to build on the one from last week. I did actually read all of your papers, by the way. Some very interesting ideas about the point of a Disarming Charm. A few were…a bit off, to say the least, but no matter. Valiant effort from all of you, and it seemed like you got the technique down well enough.”

A few snickers erupt as Neville raises his hand, face red.

“Er, yes, Neville?”

“Would you happen to have any…general tips for Disarming Charms?”

“Make sure you’re holding you wand at the right end!” someone says.

“Enough of that,” Harry says lightly. “Neville, if you have specific concerns we can talk about them after class, but we have other things we have to get started on now.”

He takes a deep breath as the laughs continue.

“Who here—and I’d bet it’s just a select few of you—has ever been able to successfully cast a nonverbal spell?”

Hermione’s hand is the first in the air, though it hadn’t shot up with her usual vigor. Harry figures this is what saves her from the typical collective eye roll. His throat tightens as he sees another hand cautiously raise in the back of the room. Leon looks rather proud of himself despite seeming reluctant to admit it.

“This kid must be bloody brilliant,” Ron whispers to Hermione, who lazily smacks him with her raised hand as she lowers it.

“Right, that’s what I thought,” Harry says, trying to fight whatever emotion is trying to claw its way up his chest. “That’s what today’s lesson is, in any case. We’re going to partner up again, in the same pairs preferably, just for today. One person will attempt to disarm the other, who will be attempting to cast a silent shield charm. We’re all familiar with those, I hope?”

Ron snorts, shaking his head. Harry can’t help but grin.

“Thanks for volunteering again, Ron! Why don’t you stand up and we can demonstrate?”

Ron’s face matches his hair as he stands, grumbling to himself.

“I’ll disarm, you defend, alright? Verbally this time, just as an example. You know the—”

“I know the damn incantation!” Ron says. “Saved the fucking world with you and you think I don’t know a shield charm,” he mutters under his breath.

Harry just shakes his head. “Hermione, would you count us off?”

“Gladly. Wands ready… Three, two, one!”

“ _Expelliarmus!”_

_“Protego!”_

There’s a flash of light. Ron’s wand remains in his hand.

“Well done,” says Hermione.

“Don’t sound so surprised!”

Ron takes his seat again and Harry turns to the whole class. “So, desks out of the way, one person at either end of the room. We’ll do one round each of doing it verbally, and then we’ll switch to nonverbal. I’ll tap you out when you’ve got the hang of it, and your goal is not to be the last person standing.” He figures a little competitive element might aid in focus.

Harry sits back on the edge of his desk as the room is rearranged and partners are located. He almost slips off the lip as Leon approaches, looking angry.

“Leon,” he says, making a valiant attempt at eye contact.

“You told me I wouldn’t have to be partnered with… _him_ again,” he says.

Harry scoffs. “I said I would try to make sure, but you’ll just have to deal for one more week, I’m afraid. You know, he really isn’t _that_ awful—”

“Are you actually taking his side right now?”

Harry sets his jaw. “I’m not taking anybody’s side. The lesson is what it is, and I don’t think it would be fair to give you special treatment.”

The anger in Leon’s eyes melts away, oddly, and he takes a minute step forward. “Look, can we talk about—”

“Absolutely not,” Harry snaps. “I’m in the middle of teaching a class, if you hadn’t noticed.”

“I know, but you won’t—”

“Get back in line,” Harry says. The voice coming out of his mouth doesn’t feel like his own, and he’s overcome by a sudden feeling of…jealousy? It feels utterly disjointed from the context, but it’s mixed in with fear and anger and disappointment, so he doesn’t really have time to consider its source. Leon raises his chin defiantly but turns on his heel, stomping toward the rear of the room. Hermione gives Harry a questioning look but he waves her off.

“Right side, you’re on offense first. Wands ready everybody…”

Harry counts off and a symphony of incantations fill the room. Only two wands sail through the air, which either means the shield charms are good or the disarming charms are not. Harry chooses to believe the former having seen the progress made in the previous class.

They repeat the same thing for the left side, and after Harry counts off he almost flips backward when his own wand is blasted from his hand.

There’s a silence as he looks around, glaring. Someone points to Leon, who’s looking down at the ground. When he notices, he looks directly at Harry.

“My spell must’ve bounced off my partner’s shield.”

Harry licks his lips, genuinely considering pulling Leon out of the room to lecture him on why he won’t accept being undermined. But he quickly regains his composure and slips into a faux cheerful tone. “Oh well, things like this happen in such a hands on class.” He steps forward and retrieves his wand from the ground and it feels like the whole room exhales in relief.

“I hope we all feel comfortable with disarming and shield charms now, as we’re going to transition into nonverbal casting. I do think things will get a little chaotic here, so you’ve been warned. We’ll start with the right side again, then do the left, and if you still haven’t got it then you each pair can go at their own pace. It’s best if you have the incantation in your head before you even attempt to cast. Let’s line up again, shall we?”

Harry can’t help but smile as each pair gets into position, a look of intense concentration painted on every face. Something comes over him when he teaches: a fierce desire to see each person succeed.So again, he counts down. Instead of a slew of shouts, he’s met with a solid wall of silence.

Unsurprisingly, Hermione disarms Ron in a second, again catching his wand like she had last class. He huffs but looks at her with more pride than disdain as she carefully tosses it back to him.

For the most part, Harry sees a whole lot of nothing in the following moment. That is, until two wands go flying at once and a charm collides with a shield. The wands belong to Seamus Finnegan and, much to Harry’s delight, Neville’s partner, some Ravenclaw girl he still hasn’t learned the name of.

Neville releases an incredulous laugh. “I’ve actually done it!”

“Well done Neville!” Harry calls.

The full pairing of charm and shield had been Draco and Leon.

Not sure why, he throws a big smile in Draco’s direction, nodding in approval. It doesn’t go unnoticed. A few people mutter to their neighbors, looking between them.

“Er, let’s switch then,” Harry says a little too fast, a punch of embarrassment hitting him in the stomach. He shakes his head as people reposition, trying to get his mind to return to the task at hand.

This time around there are a few more magical clashes. Hermione and Ron are both on top of it this time around, and a few other pairings follow suit. Harry steps away from his desk, surveying the room. He taps out Ron and Hermione, Neville and his partner, two Hufflepuff girls (he really does need to start committing names to memory), and Draco and Leon. Leon tries to say something as he passes, but he walks a little faster and pretends not to hear. He doesn’t need… _that_. Not now.

It’s a few minutes before all of the pairs have made it through the test. Luna and Ginny take a surprisingly long time, Ginny getting more and more frustrated as she goes. By the end, her face is flushed and she’s making a strange moaning noise as she tries to disarm Luna, who is cheering her on from across the way. Harry finally steps in and allows them to stop, partly to save Ginny further embarrassment and partly because their time is running out.

In a similar fashion to the previous class, Harry has the class do a short writing assignment following the activity.

“Everybody write five reasons or scenarios in which nonverbal casting would be more beneficial than verbal.” He pauses. “ _And_ , three times when it wouldn’t be.” There are some groans at that, as it’s a more difficult question. But he needs to send the message that even if it felt fun and exciting, this is still a class. What happens within these walls matters.

 

* * *

 

 

Hermione places her finished essay on his desk and perches next to him on its edge.

“We need to talk.”

“Hermione, I’m in the middle of—”

“Not now,” she clarifies. “And I know you have tryouts today. But afterward, you and I are sitting down and we’re talking about…you know.” She glances at Leon, whose forehead is practically touching his parchment. Harry feels his insides twist at that, trying to avoid his face from heating up.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he says. He has no idea why he’s being so stubborn about it. Well. Yes he does. Hermione’s inference is _not_ one he’s prepared to face.

“Fine, then our conversation will be short,” she replies, huffing as she grabs her bag and leaves the room. “But there will be a conversation.”

Other student start to pack up and turn in their work as well, giving him friendly smiles and words of encouragement or thanks as they pass.

Ron claps him on the back, grinning. “Didn’t do too bad today, did I?”

Harry smiles back. “Killed it, mate.”

“Really gets me in the headspace to kick some arse at tryouts later, you know?”

Harry hasn’t given much thought to them. Maybe it’s arrogant, but he knows he has nothing to worry about. He’ll likely be on a team no matter what.

“Agreed. I’ll see you in a bit?”

Ron takes his leave as well, and Harry suddenly regrets not reiterating that getting out early wouldn’t be a regular thing. Two in a row would definitely give some people the wrong impression.

“Here. Eight bullshit points about nonverbal magic,” Leon says, slamming his essay down on the desk. A few people look up at the sound but return to their work.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” he asks, crossing his arms.

Harry gapes at him. “Me? Do you see the way you’re acting right now?”

“I thought we were friends, Harry. I thought we…”

“Can we not do this right now?”

“Well then when? Because I’m not an idiot, and you’ve been avoiding me all—”

“Oi, Neville!” Harry says as Neville approaches, handing over his work. “You said you had some questions, right?” he asks, hoping the look in his eyes will convince Neville to stick around.

“Not anymore. I think I really got the hang of it today!”

Shit.

“Yeah. Yeah, you did. I’m proud of you.”

“Thanks, Harry!” Neville says, beaming as he bounces away.

“So?” Leon asks, looking around to see who’s still in the classroom. Harry notices a slight scowl when his eyes pass over Draco.

There are so many things Harry wants to say. But more importantly, he has a thousand questions that are fighting to be the first to emerge from his lips. And he’s too afraid to ask a single one.

“Look, Leon…I just. I can’t do… _this_. I’m sorry, I’ll…see you around, you know?”

Leon stays for a moment, looking like he’s going to say something else, but as tears well up in his eyes he runs out of the room. Harry sighs, watching as he goes. He doesn’t even notice that Draco has sidled up to the desk.

“What’s all the fuss?” he asks innocently.

Harry narrows his eyes at him, about to open his mouth.

“Sorry. Not my business.”

Harry sighs. “You’re right. But for the record, I couldn’t tell you anyway. He’s very…confusing.”

“In what way?”

Harry shrugs. In all honesty, it’s not that Leon is confusing at all.He’s been very forthright and clear, actually. Harry is the one who’s confused.

“This might sound a bit weird, but would you mind taking a walk with me?” Draco asks, standing up a little straighter.

“I…sure. Is everything alright?”

The last few students pile their parchment on top of the pile on their way out.

“Yes, everything’s fine.”

“So you just want to add to the rumor mill, then?” Harry asks, smiling a little as he gathers all of the essays.

“Pfft. Yes, that’s precisely what I want. It’s hell walking around and knowing people are talking about you, isn’t it?”

Harry looks at him, resigned. “Well, that’s my life.”

“Oh. Er. Right. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I’ve learned how to ignore it right well by now. If anything, I feel bad that you’ve gotten roped into it this time.”

They start out. Harry is grateful nobody else had stuck around to see them emerging from the classroom together.

“So what was it that you needed to talk about?”

Draco takes a deep breath, looking at his feet as they walk. “I wanted to say thank you, and also sorry. Properly. Not from my death bed or in the thick of saving lives or anything like that. I just. Well. I—” Harry can’t help but laugh as Draco stutters. “I’m sorry, I’m really no good at this.”

“At least the same can’t be said about Defense,” Harry says. He really had been impressed with Draco’s work that day.

“Oh. That? That was nothing.”

“Are you serious? Half the people in that room only ended up getting it by luck. You were right on target every time.”

“I suppose. It helps that you’re a good teacher. Did you know that? For years I took Defense and always hated it, but you make it fun somehow. I think you’re a really good teacher, P—Harry…” Draco says, trailing off.

They walk in silence for a second, Harry unsure of how to respond.

Finally, he says, “What do you have to thank me for, anyway? I thought we agreed to leave the past where it belongs.”

“Right, yes, we did. But that’s extremely gracious of you. Almost too much so. And I just worry that you’re avoiding things instead of actually moving past them.”

Harry pauses, mulling that over. “I see your point, but that’s not what this is. Sure, there are some things I’ve yet to work through, but I can promise that this—you—aren’t one of them. Besides, it’s not like I’m totally innocent in the grand scheme of things.”

It’s Draco’s turn to laugh now. “Technically, no. But if you weigh my mistakes against yours—”

“It’s pointless,” Harry says. He’s stopped walking. Draco stops too, stunned.

“I’m sorry, did I say something wrong?”

“No, it’s not that,” Harry says, repositioning his bag on his shoulder. “I just see you as different now. That much is already clear to me, you’re a completely different person. You feel it too, right? Things are just _not_ the same, and I’d rather not think about the past if I don’t have to.”

“But if you keep avoiding it—”

“I’m _not_ ,” he says with a little more force than intended. “Gods, Draco, I’m sorry,” he says when he sees the aghast look on the blond’s face. “I know you’re just trying to be nice and I’m sort of fucking that up. But it’s like what you said about saving David’s life. I’m just doing what feels right. What anybody would do.”

“Not anybody,” Draco mumbles.

“Hmm?”

“Not just anybody would be as forgiving as you are,” he says, exasperated, throwing his hands to his sides. “Not everybody is. I know that for a fact. So would you just accept my bloody thanks so we can move on? I feel like I’m still two steps behind in whatever this is because you’ve already moved on, and I’m really just trying to catch up and do the same. So, just…please.”

A silence breaches between them. Neither breaks eye contact. Harry smiles, defeated.

“Fine. You’re welcome,” he says as he continues to walk.

“Good. Great. That’s settled.”

“I’m gonna kick your arse at tryouts today, by the way,” Harry says, bumping Draco’s shoulder. He shocks himself a bit, not sure where the sudden appreciation for the other boy has come from. The sense of camaraderie.

“Fat chance. I just got a brand new broom.”

“Did you get some brand new talent with it?”

Draco is quiet for a second and Harry eyes him sideways, afraid he’d taken the joking too far too soon. Then Draco smiles.

“Guess you’ll find out,” he says, returning Harry’s shoulder bump and turning down the next corridor without another word.

 

* * *

 

 

As he walks to the Quidditch pitch alone, Harry has some time to think about recent events. And for the first time, he really allows himself to _think_ about them. Although doing emotional exploration right before the start of his last ever Quidditch season might not be the best judgment and could potentially alter his performance, it feels inevitable.

So. Leon had made a move. That much is obvious. A very subtle and sweet move, yes, and one that was probably even warranted given the context. But not one that Harry had been expecting. So then why had it felt so…right?

Being with another man is _not_ something that Harry has ever even considered. Growing up in the Muggle world, he’s heard some things about homosexuals, many of which have not exactly been positive. A few different words keep creeping toward the front of his mind, taunting him. Poof. Fairy. Fag. Queer. Perv. It makes his vision swim and his chest constrict, because he doesn’t agree with those things himself. At least, he doesn’t think so. He’s never even met a gay person before, not that he knows of. But he has no reason to think negatively of gay people.

That’s why he’s so confused about why he’d run from Leon. About why he’s been avoiding him. Shutting him out completely. And why it hurts _him_ so much to do so.

Is it possible? Could he be…gay? Or bisexual, maybe? He thinks back to his experiences with girls. Of course there had been ups and downs, especially with Ginny. But he’ll be damned if he can think of a single up that was as good as simply feeling Leon’s hand in his. A single moment where sparks had crackled up his spine and every nerve in his body had lit ablaze. No, he doesn’t think bisexual is it, if he’s being honest. But the idea of being gay? There’s something that feels almost…correct about that. Like a puzzle piece that’s been in the right place the whole time, but has finally been rotated to fit with the rest of the picture. And it scares him. After everything he’s been through and everything he’s done, it feels like the whole world knows him. To think that all this time, he might not have even known _himself_ …it’s too much.

Fuck. _Fuck_. He tries to snap himself out of it as he nears the Quidditch pitch, slapping his own cheek to bring him back to the lush green grass under foot, the cloudy blue sky above. Maybe he’ll explore it eventually. But not now. There’s just too much going on, and so much has already changed. He doesn’t need another essential shift to come in and shake up his whole foundation now that he’s had to rebuild it so carefully.

It’s all come on so suddenly, but through this new lens so much makes sense. It feels like finally waking up and seeing colors the way they’re meant to be seen. Harry thinks again about Leon opening up to him, pouring his heart out on Harry’s chest, taking comfort in him, _trusting_ him. And how Harry felt so good being there for him, like it was suddenly natural. Meant to be. He wants to continue to act as that reassuring figure for Leon, and he wants it in return, too.

But then he thinks about what might happen if somebody found out. The press would have an absolute field day. People would absolutely think of him differently. Even if it’s not a bad different, it’s a _big_ different. And what about Leon? He’s already so fragile, right underneath the surface. Harry would never want to put him—or _anybody_ , for that matter—through the ringer like that.

So no. Right now, he just can’t—won’t—go there. He’ll finish his education and tie up his loose ends at Hogwarts. He’ll survive just on the love from his friends. That’s how it’s always been anyway, hasn’t it? Maybe someday, when his name is more of an echo, a fond memory, he can consider it.

He’s pushing it down, covering it up, because letting it out means unleashing something so new, something so unknown, that he can’t even conceive of it.

But he realizes at this moment that no matter what, as hard as he tries, he can’t deny this new, jarring reality. Harry Potter likes men.

 

* * *

 

 

“Harry? You alright, mate?” Ron asks as Harry approaches. “Looks like you’re trying to swallow a Snitch.”

And Harry would know.

“No, I’m alright. Was just…thinking.”

“You’re not worried about this, are you?” Ron says, stepping in close and dropping his voice. “You fly better than every other player at this school, and probably the Beauxbatons lot too. And if you’re worried, then I’m wondering if _I_ need to be more worried.“

Harry looks around as Ron speaks, noticing some familiar faces. The old Gryffindor team has made a strong showing. Aside from himself and Ron there was Ginny, of course, as well as Demelza Robins, Jimmy Peakes, and Ritchie Coote. Dean Thomas is there as well, chatting with Ginny. Harry smiles a bit at seeing all of them there, but there’s some sadness in it, too. They won’t all be on the same team together. There are a few other younger Gryffindors present as well, most of whom Harry doesn’t even recognize.

“Are you listening? I’m trying to keep my marbles in line here,” Ron says, waving his hand in front of Harry’s face.

“Sorry. Just have a lot on my mind.”

“You’ve been acting absolutely mental lately, you know.”

Harry can’t help but laugh, a loud, from the gut laugh that turns a few heads.

“Exactly my point,” Ron says, rolling his eyes.

The fact that he has his Firebolt X in hand (which is new, too, as a matter of fact, but he wasn’t about to tell Draco that) and he’s about to play his favorite game in the world… It’s unmatchable. Not even with the weight of his recent self discovery. He knows as soon as his feet leave the ground, that weight will be nothing more than trivial. Just him and the wind and the sky.

“I know I’ve been a bit scattered. Just lots going on, you know?”

“Right, sure. Oh look, there’s Hermione, there!” He points up into the stands. It seems she’s just arrived and found a seat. She notices and waves, smiling and letting out a whoop of excitement. “She’s been really excited about this for some reason.”

“Less time she has to spend with you, I suppose,” Harry says. He receives a punch in the arm in return.

He continues to scan the crowd of people mulling around the middle of the pitch. He sees quite a few Beauxbatons hopefuls, which is something of a surprise. He remembers that…Leon had talked about a few friends who were interested in Quidditch, but he’s completely in the dark about whether or not they have a league at school or if maybe they just play outside. Either way, they could be lacking in the talent to keep up with the Hogwarts students, or they could be miles ahead of them. Harry is incredibly interested to see how things play out.

He finds himself smiling as Draco Malfoy strolls onto the field with Blaise Zabini. They’ll both get through, for sure. It’ll be good to have some Slytherin representation in the league.

Now _that’s_ not something he’s used to thinking.

All of the excited chatter dims to a low murmur as Madam Hooch finds her way to the center of the crowd. Despite not feeling nervous, Harry can’t help but notice a strange twisting in his stomach. Sure, pre-Quidditch nerves weren’t completely foreign to him, but this sudden wave of nausea is confusing and, admittedly, slightly concerning. He tries to ignore it as Madam Hooch addresses the players.

“Hello everyone. For those of you who don’t know me, my name is Madam Hooch. I’m in charge of all things Quidditch here at Hogwarts. For those of you who I _do_ know, welcome back.” She flashes a few smiles at familiar faces and tosses a quick wink in Harry’s direction. He grins back. “I’m sure you’ve already read the rules and guidelines when it comes to the forming of teams. I’ve been informed that they were a bit vague, so to clarify: each team will consist of players from _at least_ three Hogwarts Houses, as well as at least one Beauxbatons student.”

A minor uproar emerges from the crowd as people start to complain about Houses being too split up. Madam Hooch raises her hands, her expression pointed.

“Enough! Headmistress McGonagall and I have agreed that this is the best way to make this less about House rivalry and more about the sport itself. I said, _enough_!”

The chatter dies out.

“I’ll thank you to keep the noise to a minimum while I explain as things are so different this time around. Now, some other housekeeping things. The tournament itself will be constrained to just this term and will conclude by the winter holidays. I know that it’s usually a year-round event, but as we are still unsure of how long Beauxbatons’ stay will be, it seems safest to keep things shorter so they’ll be much more likely to finish things out. _Should they return to Beauxbatons before next term,”_ she continues loudly over another round of grumbling, “or any such situation like that, it _is_ possible…that we will re-tryout and do another abridged league.”

This is met with positivity and Hooch allows herself a smile.

“So, that feels like quite enough talking for now, doesn’t it? Let’s play some Quidditch!”

Harry considers covering his ears as the pitch shakes with the cries of joy and excitement.

“Split off into positions. I’ll be making teams for a few short scrimmages just to see how well you’re all able to get along being thrown into groups of new people. You might be the best damn Chaser this side of the Atlantic, but if you can’t work well with your teammates it’s useless!”

Harry and Ron exchange a look, half amused and half nervous, as they move to separate quadrants. Harry almost yelps as Madam Hooch suddenly pulls him aside.

“You’ll be captain, I hope?”

He blinks at her. “The tryout hasn’t even started yet.”

“Oh, let’s not pretend the results are going to be anything less.”

“With all due respect…You’re not just doing this because I—”

“Because you’re Harry Potter? No. I’ve seen your flying improve year after year, boy. The whole savior business has nothing to do with it. But while we’re on the topic, good stuff, there.”

Harry can’t help but laugh. “Happy to oblige, Madam Hooch. Er, I actually was wondering about something. Ron—”

“Mister Weasley will be fine,” she finishes, waving him off the subject. “And I’m sure you’ll understand that I can’t promise anything. Especially with so many Gryffindors in attendance and all that. Rules are rules.”

“Right, of course. I understand.”

“Good. Looking forward to a very interesting season,” she says, giving him a little push toward the small group of Seekers.

“What was that all about?” Draco asks, looking suspicious.

Harry shrugs. “Just wanted to thank me for saving the world.” He laughs as Draco rolls his eyes, and then Hooch is blowing her whistle.

“Rules are simple! Everybody will be assigned one team, unless there are uneven numbers, in which case some people will get to play twice. Should you all be so lucky. _Most_ of you will have just one scrimmage game to show me what you’ve got, so don’t hold back.”

Harry grips his broom, suddenly excited. The turning in his gut hasn’t stopped, but it feels irrational so he’s able to compartmentalize and shove it to the back of his mind. Had it not been for his prior conversation with Madam Hooch, he might be terrified. The stakes are much different this time around. Players who had been on their team, some for years, are suddenly under a magnifying glass again. And the number of teams is still a mystery as well. It’s all very exciting, really.

“When I call your name, step forward.” She looks down at a list of names and starts to call players forward. Harry is safe from the first two teams, but Ron and Ginny have been chosen to play against each other. Excellent. If anything, it’ll be a compelling game.

“If everybody else could please step to the edge of the pitch. Watch your heads by the way, easier than sending you up into the stands, though. Alright, positions!”

The first two teams swing their legs over their brooms as Madam Hooch walks between them, opening up the chest that contains the Quidditch balls. The Snitch jets out, glittering in the afternoon sunlight, then disappears into the blue. Then in a swift motion, the Bludgers are released and the Quaffle thrown skyward. And the pitch erupts into madness.

Harry can feel his own adrenaline building as he watches the scrimmage before him, suddenly remembering how exhilarating it is to zip through the sky, potential danger all around. Though watching without commentary does make things a bit more complicated, as an experienced player he’s able to follow along well enough.

One of the Chasers, a Hufflepuff—her name is Margot, he thinks—is a bit of a ball hog all throughout. Not to much avail, unfortunately; she misses almost every single shot she attempts against Ron. Harry can tell by Ginny’s flying that she’s frustrated by Margot’s playing style, and she keeps getting her to pass the Quaffle. The third Chaser seems a bit lost. She’s a small Beauxbatons girl. The few times she does get the ball she’s very quick, and almost scores twice. Harry has to admit that Ron has gotten much better as a Keeper. Ginny is the only person who is able to regularly score against him throughout the match, likely because she knows his defense style so well.

Harry is about to switch focus to the Beaters when there’s a gasp throughout the pitch. Both of the Seekers have spotted the Snitch and are racing toward it, nearly straight up. One is a girl from Ravenclaw called Denise, the other is an older looking boy from Beauxbatons who seems to think he has the catch in the bag. Harry can see his confident smirk from the ground. It’s somewhat satisfying then when Denise does the unthinkable and launches herself off her broom entirely, swiping the Snitch out of the sky and then landing gracefully back on the broom.

A huge cheer erupts from the ground and the people on Denise’s team. Ron looks less than happy, as his team was pulling ahead in points and he had been doing a good job of defending.

“It’s not a real game, mate. You haven’t lost anything,” Harry says as Ron touches down again. “You blocked a lot of points.”

“Still wanted to win,” Ron grumbles. Harry laughs and pats him on the back.

“I know.”

After the excitement of Denise’s impressive catch has died down, Madam Hooch instructs the remaining players to separate into positions again.

“That was quite the show stopping catch,” Harry murmurs to Draco as they reconvene. “She’s in for sure.”

“If I remember correctly, you’ve had some moments yourself.”

“Please, don’t remind me. Like that time a Bludger nearly took my arm clean off.”

“Or the Snitch you caught in your mouth.”

“Or the time I fell off my broom because I thought there were…” He stops himself. Right. Draco had been one of the perpetrators in the fake Dementor incident. He’s grateful that his name is called so he can step away, suddenly feeling uncharacteristically self-conscious. This is his territory. He knows Quidditch. Why should he care what anybody thinks?

Harry looks around at the rest of his team. He smiles at Jimmy Peakes, one of the Beaters from his team during sixth year. He gives Jimmy a reassuring nod.

Everybody else is a stranger. Some are vaguely familiar, but Harry has also been gone for a year. With the ban on Quidditch (and also joy) from the year prior, the pool of players is suddenly much different than the one he remembers. He has two players from Beauxbatons, his Keeper and one of the Chasers, as well as a rather buff Ravenclaw Beater. He gives Harry a wink, which he raises an eyebrow at but says nothing. There’s also a broody looking blonde girl from Slytherin.

Harry is considering giving a quick warmup talk, but Madam Hooch is calling for positions. He gets a good look at the other team and his head spins for a moment when he sees Draco Malfoy is the other Seeker. Good. They’d done this dance before. Harry knows that when he sees the Snitch, Draco tends to get tunnel vision and forget there are twelve other players in the air. Harry might be able to use that to his advantage.

When the whistle blows, Harry shoots into the sky like he never has. Sure, he’d played some bollocks rounds at the Burrow, but nothing beats the wide open sky that the Hogwarts Quidditch pitch has to offer. For a second he forgets he’s technically in the middle of a tryout as he zips around, loving the balanced speed and control of his new broom. It isn’t until a Bludger whizzes dangerously close to his face that he remembers his role.

He halts his joyride, hovering in place as he surveys the game below. The first thing he notices is Draco making slow circles around the pitch. An interesting strategy. On the opposing team, one of the Beaters is a small Beauxbatons girl; he figures she had been the one who had nearly nailed him, as the other Beater is a scrawny Ravenclaw who looks like he would be better suited as a Seeker.

Harry suddenly remembers that Leon had mentioned something about having a friend who’s a Beater. This must be her. Either her aim is bad, or it’s _really_ good and she’d been demonstrating constraint. Perhaps it was a warning shot. He doesn’t really have time to analyze her play style, though, as there’s a flash of gold in his periphery.

He keeps his cool, not wanting to alert Draco that he’s seen anything. But sure enough, the Snitch is at eye level, zig-zagging through low hanging clouds. He starts to follow it cautiously, trying not to glance below to avoid drawing attention and so as not to lose his target.

A few things happen at once. He sees that Draco is up at his level now, continuing his circles. He then looks down for a split second and sees that, in the stands, Leon is sitting down next to Hermione. She hugs him and points up at Harry, who quickly looks away, thrown.

Then: “What were you saying about talent, Potter?” Draco says as he zips past. Harry snaps out of his stupor and tries to relocate the Snitch. He sees that Draco has started to dive for it and chases after, pushing himself and his broom to the limit, the roar of rushing wind in his ears.

Sure, actually catching the Snitch had no effect on him being on a team, he knows. He’s genuinely grateful that that specific pressure is off. But the idea of Draco besting him? Old rivalry aside, he just doesn’t want to let the Slytherin have that over him.

He laughs as the Snitch switches direction on a dime, launching upward and back toward Harry. He can’t slow his own dive or change direction, so he prays as he stretches out his hand that he’s close enough to… _SMACK_!

Harry cries out in pain as the golden ball collides with his hand at such a high velocity. But it’s his, wriggling around in his hand, whizzing whimsically. That buzz of golden wings beating against his hand had been missed.

“Better luck next time!” he calls to Draco, who is sitting almost directly below him, his mouth wide open. Harry means it too; he has a feeling there _will_ be a next time.

 

* * *

 

 

“I thank you all for your patience!” Madam Hooch calls as she steps back toward the group. Many are lounging in the grass, eagerly reliving every detail of each match. It’s late afternoon, a warm breeze caressing the Quidditch pitch as the sun starts its descent.

Harry had also been chosen to play in the third game, which he lost to that Denise girl from Ravenclaw. Hey, you can’t win them all. She does make him nervous, though. He’s never seen such an aggressive and risk-taking Seeker. And that’s coming from _him_. Draco had won the fourth and final game for his team after an admittedly impressive outmaneuvering of a girl from Beauxbatons.

“As you know, I, myself am learning as I go,” Hooch continues. “This is an exciting new twist on our tradition, and I am greatly honored to be part of it and excited to see what’s in store. That being said, and in keeping to that tradition, we will have four teams in total!”

A murmur ripples through the crowd. That’s less than thirty people, and there are nearly sixty who had tried out.

“I recognize that many of you will not get a chance to play this term, but as I said earlier, there may be more opportunities down the line. I make no promises, of course, but there is always next year as well. For most of you,” she says solemnly.

“Alright, enough beating around it. I’ll announce the teams now.”

Everybody is on their feet at this point, a large semi-circle forming around Madam Hooch.

“When I call your name just come forward so I can shake your hand and then you can move to the side over there. In no particular order…”

She looks up from the piece of parchment in her hands, a devious look in her eye. Harry has to smile.

“Our first team will be captained by Miss Denise Matthews from Ravenclaw, the rogue Seeker!”

Applause breaks the silence of the crowd as Denise steps forward, laughing in disbelief. Harry grins and claps for her. She’s certainly one to watch out for.

“Then we have Fabien Arquette from Beauxbatons as Keeper, Ritchie Coote—Gryffindor—and Michael Robertson—Hufflepuff—as Beaters, and that leaves Kim Lassiter—Ravenclaw—and Xander Matthews—Hufflepuff—and finally Eloise Tremblay, also from Beauxbatons, as the three Chasers. Give them a hand, everyone!”

The seven of them gather to the side, shaking hands and introducing themselves.

“Alright, you’ll have plenty of time later to ge to know one another. We have other teams to announce!”

The air is thick with silence again. Harry can see the worry in Ron’s eyes.

“This team will be captained by none other than Harry Potter!”

Harry smiles as he steps forward, giving Ron a hopeful nod and facing the crowd. He can hear Hermione screeching from the stands.

“Speech!” someone yells.

“That won’t be necessary,” Madam Hooch says, grinning. “And now for Mister Potter’s team: Christie Collins from Hufflepuff will be Keeper—only female Keeper who tried out, by the way, good on you—Bella Dumont from Beauxbatons and Chris Meagher from Ravenclaw will be Beaters, and your Chasers are Eva Lafoy from Beauxbatons, Blaise Zabini—Slytherin—and Ginny Weasley—Gryffindor!”

The concoction of emotions that hits Harry is potent and complex. Leon’s friend would be one of his Beaters. Alright, fine. Blaise Zabini…Harry doesn’t know much about him, except that he lives with Draco and is a fairly skilled Chaser, if he remembers correctly. This Chris bloke is the one who’d played Beater in Harry’s first scrimmage, the one who had winked at him. Not a bad Beater. Definitely has the arms for it, Harry notices. And of course, having Ginny is definitely a relief. He isn’t _completely_ alone, and they each know how the other plays.

Then he looks into the crowd and sees Ron, crestfallen. _There are still two more teams_ , he thinks, trying to give Ron a reassuring look. But he knows exactly what’s going through his best friend’s head. He’s either going to have to play against Harry, or, even worse, he’s been cut.

Harry is slightly shocked when Ginny gives him a quick hug as she joins the group, grinning like mad. “I’m so relieved,” she admits before greeting all of the other players. Harry also shakes everybody’s hand quickly as Madam Hooch starts to list off the third team. He hears Dean Thomas’ name, and then Demelza Robins. Good Gryffindor showing, for sure. Everybody is a bit shocked to hear that a Beauxbatons student named Beau Lux—a Keeper—is to be captain of this team. Not only that, but everybody else on the team is a Hogwarts student.

Ron looks like he wants to melt into the ground. Harry tries to catch his eye, but Ron refuses to look up. Surely he’ll be on this last team? Hell, he’ll likely even be captain.

“Alright, on to our last team. Our last captain will be Slytherin’s Draco Malfoy!”

Harry almost laughs out loud when he sees the look on Draco’s face. He figures if Draco had been in this position two, maybe three years ago, he would’ve sneered and stepped cooly to the front. But now, his jaw drops open for a second and he looks around, seemingly shocked by the applause.

“Come on Mister Malfoy, up front, we don’t have all day!”

He steps forward, shaking his head. Harry manages to catch his gaze and gives him a subtle thumbs up. He does deserve it, Harry supposes. Then he remembers his best friend. His gaze snaps back to Ron, who looks downright offended.

“Next up is Ron Weasley from Gryffindor as Keeper!”

The offense immediately melts away and is replaced by relief as Ron steps forward. He hesitates, then shakes Draco’s hand and gives him a sort of nod.

Harry is unable to listen to the rest of the names as Ginny has pulled him aside.

“Look, this is absolutely brilliant that we get to play together. Maybe for the last time, officially, and all that. But I feel like I need to clear the air.”

“I…oh?” Harry’s throat is suddenly tight. He’s not predicting a fun conversation.

“Up until very recently, I…sort of…had feelings for you still.”

“How recently?”

She huffs, looking at the ground. “Fine. I still do.”

“Er…I’m…sorry?”

“No, stop, that’s not the point. I’m dealing with that on my own and all that. But I’m guessing you’ve sort of been wondering how I’ve been after…everything.”

Truthfully, Harry hasn’t thought of their relationship at _all_ since coming back to Hogwarts. He does remember a conversation with Hermione back at the Burrow in which she explained that Ginny was still probably hurting, but the whirlwind of coming back to school sort of pushed it out of his mind.

“And I want you to know that I respect that you’ve moved on and all that, which… You have, right?”

“Yes.”

“Of course, just checking. My point is, this year Quidditch is wildly different but we still manage to get teamed up anyway, and I don’t want anything to come between us and that fucking winner’s seat, alright? Just, you know, full disclosure and all that. And now that you’ve confirmed that you’re definitely over us and all of that…it helps. It does. So thanks, I guess.”

“Brilliant,” Harry says, scratching the back of his neck. “I, er, appreciate it. And I’m sorry that you’re still hurting about things.” The words don’t feel like they mean anything, but it does feel like the right thing to say.

She waves a hand at him. “You know me, I’ll be on to somebody else soon enough.”

He manages a dry laugh. “Just make sure it’s someone not on our team.”

Ginny scoffs. “My choices are Blaise Zabini and that meathead Meagher, you don’t have anything to worry about.”

“Right. Good.”

“You’re going to be a great captain. I mean, obviously you’ve done it before, but this is so different. You have a knack for bringing people together, I think.”

“Well thanks, Ginny,” he says. “I appreciate the support. I imagine you’ll be a sort of leading figure as well. That’s always been your nature.”

He expects her to blush, maybe stammer something out in response. Instead, she just grins and kisses him on the cheek.

“Yeah, I suppose I have the right kind of spunk for it. Bit of a control freak, aren’t I?” She pauses. “You know…I really am glad that we can still be friends after everything. I get that the whole world sort of loves you and everything, but you mean a lot to me. I…I know you in ways they never will, and that’s special.”

Harry is at a loss for words, so instead he just pulls her in for a hug. “I feel the same way about you. You’re…like a sister to me,” he says, feeling a bit odd about his choice of words in this context but embracing it anyway.

“Oi! We’re not done yet!” comes Chris Meagher’s voice from where the groups are gathered.

“Like I said, _meathead_ ,” Ginny mutters to Harry as they rejoin the group.

Madam Hooch is thanking the other players for coming out and giving it their all and encouraging them to come back whenever the next set of openings is. Some look hopeful. Others defeated. Harry reckons they’ll all try again anyway. Or hopes so, at least.

Now that he’s able to get a good look at all the teams, he sees that they each have representation from every house _and_ Beauxbatons, aside from Denise’s team, which is missing a Slytherin. The balancing out of skill and age is also pretty well done. Harry is suddenly eager to find out when the first match is. He imagines it’ll have to be soon if the league is to be done by the end of the term.

Madam Hooch turns to the four new teams as everybody else trickles out.

“So, you lot! Congratulations again on making it this far. It’s going to be an _interesting_ term, to say the least.”

A polite round of applause comes and goes.

“You’ll all have to come up with a team name, of course. That can wait until your first practice, or it can happen sooner if you wish. It needs to be Hogwarts appropriate, mind you, and there obviously can’t be any repetition. I urge you to get to know each other and see if there are things you all have in common, that would be a great place to start. Names need to be decided a week before your first match. I’ll be posting practice schedules and announcing the first official game of the season by the end of this week. I can be flexible with practice times as long as you can be. At the end of the day, everybody should get the same shot.” She claps her hands together, surveying her work. Harry can tell she’s proud of the teams she’s created. “Alright, well, that’s it from me. Have a great week, all!”

The twenty-eight new Quidditch players start to disperse. Ginny lightly punches Harry on the shoulder as she goes to congratulate Ron, who still looks a bit grumpy.

Harry approaches Draco, who’s rather patiently listening to one of his Beaters. Harry is shocked to see that he’s incredibly young—he’s a Hufflepuff, no older than second or third year.

“Don’t worry, we can definitely work on that,” Draco says with a smile Harry hasn’t ever seen before. It makes his heart do some kind of dance. He tells his heart to stop that. He already has enough going on with the Leon situation, he can’t even _begin_ to consider what would happen if he…No. End of story. Not going there.

The boy trots off, likely to tell his friends about his exciting news, and Draco turns to Harry.

“Bit nervous about him, honestly. He’s the only second year to make it through. Hooch must see something in him, though.”

Harry nods, wishing he’d paid more attention to the Beaters during the games.

“Congrats on captain, by the way,” Draco says.

“Same to you!”

“Thanks. I have to admit, I’m shocked. I thought it would be Weasley for sure.”

Harry shrugs. “As great as _Ron_ would be as captain,” he says, putting emphasis on his friend’s first name, “I think you’ll do just as well.”

Draco smiles, his cheeks pink. Harry can’t tell if it’s from the late afternoon sun or…something else.

“I guess I’ve just never considered myself leadership material. Have you?”

“Me? Or you?”

“I meant me, yeah.”

“Honestly, Draco, for seven years I tried not to consider you at all,” Harry says, smiling. Draco laughs, and Harry realizes it’s not really a sound he’s heard before. Sure, he’s heard a cold, sardonic chuckle from the blond, but nothing genuine or containing any actual joy.

“Congratulations, you two!” comes Hermione’s voice from behind him. She hugs Ginny and gives Ron a big kiss.

“I’d better, er…”

“Right, your friends.” Draco looks around. Harry notices that not even Blaise stuck around.

“I’ll see you around though, yeah?”

Draco nods. “You’re my teacher now, remember?”

“Right,” he says, shaking his head. “Well if not sooner, see you Monday.”

As he turns back toward his friends, he feels an odd sense of melancholy, even after coming out of the tryouts so victorious. Perhaps it’s residual from his conversation with Ginny.

“Harry! So proud of you!” Hermione says, bounding up to him and kissing him on the cheek.

“Hey, thanks, Hermione,” he says, suddenly distracted by the fact that Ginny and Ron are talking to Leon. “By the way, did he just happen to find you, or—”

“Who, Leon? No, I invited him.”

“You what?”

She looks at him quizzically. “I ran into him after your class today and we got to talking about some things—”

“Like what?”

“Harry,” she says, taking a step back, “is there something I need to know?”

“ _No_ , it’s not that…”

“Well he didn’t tell me about whatever it is that’s weird between you right now, if that’s what you mean.”

He gapes at her. “How did you—”

“You think I don’t notice things? Especially about you? Ever since that day after your first Defense class, things have been tense. And I just don’t get how things turned around so quickly, because it seemed like the two of you were getting on so well before that.”

“Why does it matter to you? I thought maybe he could be a friend, but I was wrong, alright?”

She looks a little hurt. He does feel bad that he isn’t telling her the whole truth.

“I know there’s something you’re not telling me,” she says, almost like she’s reading his mind. “I wasn’t kidding about having that talk in a bit, either. And you’re gonna tell me what it is, because I can tell that it’s bothering you, and maybe even hurting you, and you’ve had enough of that for a lifetime. And I _know_ whatever it is, you haven’t told Ron.”

“Hermione, did you ask him about it?”

She scoffs. “No! But I know you two. You talk about…I don’t know, shallow boy things most of the time. Quidditch. Brooms. Chess.”

Harry has to admit that she has a point. He groans, running his hands through his hair. Hermione is the wisest and most intuitive person he knows. If anybody can help him with this…dilemma, it’s her.

“Fine. We can talk.”

“Great. But first, you’re going to talk to Leon.”

“No. Absolutely not, Hermione, you can’t just—.”

“Ron? Ginny? Let’s head back to the castle, I’m famished!” she calls to them. They come over right away, Leon on their heels. “We’ll see you later! Congrats again, Harry.”

_Damn you, Hermione_. It’s a very Slytherin move of her, Harry feels. Because suddenly his friends are gone and he’s left alone with Leon in the middle of the Quidditch pitch.

“That was all really impressive, you know. The flying, and the catch. And being made captain.”

“Yeah, thanks,” Harry says as he picks up his broom and starts walking.

Leon walks alongside him, not letting up. “So you’re really just going to keep avoiding this conversation? I’ve been trying to talk to you for a week now, and every time you just shut down.”

“There _is_ no conversation, okay? I don’t know what you _think_ happened, or what you think is _going_ to happen, but I need you to stop following me around like this. We have to work together, but that’s it, alright? I’m sorry that I somehow made you think otherwise, but that was _your_ mistake, not mine.”

Harry notices that Leon’s stopped walking and is now standing a few yards back, his eyes brimming with tears.

“So that’s it, huh? You’re just going to toss me to the side like that? I don’t understand what you’re so afraid of. I know you felt something too. I’m not some little boy, Harry. I know who I am. Do you know you?”

Harry takes a step toward him, trying to swallow down the frustration that’s rising in his stomach, burning like bile.

“I don’t get what you want from me! I hardly fucking know you, alright? I don’t owe you a fucking thing!”

Leon doesn’t move. He doesn’t speak. A few tears fall from his eyes, but he says nothing. Makes no sound.

“Look, I…I have to be somewhere,” Harry lies, a wave of regret threatening to send him overboard. “I hope you’re liking Hogwarts so far. And by the way, I really didn’t appreciate that little stunt in class today. Maybe you need to grow up a bit.”

He wants to hex himself into oblivion as he turns around and storms back to the castle. Leon hasn’t done anything wrong, for Merlin’s sake. And now Harry’s being the biggest prat to walk the Earth because he’s…confused? Terrified? Shaken fundamentally? That’s not fair to Leon, and as Harry rushes through the doors, he wonders if he’s being fair to himself. Leon’s question echoes through his head, refusing to leave him alone.

_Do you know you?_

 

* * *

 

 

“Are you sure nobody will hear us here?” Harry asks, glancing all around him.

Hermione lays her hand on top of his. “Trust me. It’s only the second week of classes, I’m the only person who’s going to be in the library at this time in the evening. Plus, Ron would never bother to look for us here.”

He nods, unsure how she knows that he’d rather not have Ron present for this conversation.

“I…don’t really know where to start.”

“But you do admit that there’s _something_ going on?”

He nods, laughing in spite of himself. “Of course there is. You know there is. Sometimes I swear you know me better than I know myself.”

“Maybe going a little far there, but after all these years I can certainly tell when something isn’t right in Harry’s world. Aside from all of the obvious,” she jokes.

“Hermione, I…I think I might be…” He can’t get the word out. She quirks an eyebrow, waiting for his response. “I think I might be gay.”

Harry braces himself for her response.

She smiles and nods, taking a deep breath. “First of all, I want to say that I’m proud of you for telling me, and also that I’m honored you trust me enough to tell me.”

He blinks at her. “You don’t seem surprised.”

“No, I’m not,” she admits, sitting back in her seat.

“So you knew?”

“I had my suspicions. You were never really that great with girls, Harry, you must admit,” she says, cracking a fond smile. “At first I thought it was just a sort of awkward yet ultimately endearing thing about you, but especially with what’s been going on recently, I started to put some pieces together.”

“Oh.”

“Harry, I wouldn’t have told anyone!” she says. “Not in a million years would I have told anybody that I _thought_ that, not even Ron. It was just speculation anyway.”

“Some things make more sense, then.”

“Like how I was sort of egging you on about Leon?”

Harry groans and slams his head down on the table, a bang echoing through the library. Hermione giggles but shushes him.

“This is still a quiet space!”

“Sorry,” he says, rubbing his forehead as he sits up again. “But yes, that in particular makes a lot more sense. Did you know that he’s, you know?”

“Gay? Harry, really, tiptoeing around the word is giving it far too much power. You’re sort of the poster boy for flipping that on its head, aren’t you?”

“How do you mean?”

She shakes her head. “The whole Voldemort thing? Remember that?”

He grins. “Right. I suppose I did sort of force people to start using the name. Or at least get used to it.”

“So you agree that facing the issue head on was beneficial?”

“Alright, alright,” he says, putting his hands up in surrender. “I see your point.”

“Can I ask what you’re so afraid of?”

He frowns. “Who says I’m afraid?”

“Please. We’re here now. You know I’m not going to judge you about any of this. So let’s cut all of this playing dumb stuff, or I’ll just start to believe you’re dumb. And that would be a real shame because I’ve always thought you had such a quiet intelligence to you,” she says, her tone light even though he knows she means business.

“Fine. Facing it head on. I’m not scared, Hermione, I’m… _bloody terrified_ ,” he says, shocked that he’s suddenly crying, trying to hide his face behind his hands.

“Whoah. Hey, come here,” she says, shifting her chair so she can wrap her arms around him. “Harry, I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize this was making you so unhappy. I wouldn’t have pushed you the way I did if I knew.”

Harry remains in her arms for a few moments, waiting for the sting of that sucker punch of distress to pass.

“You didn’t push me,” he says, wiping his eyes. “You were just trying to give me a space to be honest, and I was too stubborn to accept that. I…Up until about a week ago, I had never met a gay person, wizard nor Muggle, and I didn’t even think that it was a possibility for me. It’s not that I ever denied it, but I just never thought that it might be part of _me_. And then suddenly it was so obvious, and that just changes everything.”

“What do you mean by that? What exactly changes? Aside from the gender of the people you date,” she says, s soft smile on her face.

“It’s still so soon after the war, Hermione. The whole world is constantly looking into my life and tearing it apart for entertainment, and something like this is perfect material. Plus, I don’t know the kind of treatment gay people are given in the wizarding world. People will think differently of me. Even if they don’t think it’s bad, it’s just another thing that…others me.”

“First of all, I think your life being broadcasted so publicly all the time is a double-edged sword. Yes, I’ve seen the immense harm that can do, especially to a young person, and I’ve seen all of the pain that the world has not only witnessed but _caused_ you. But Harry, people _love_ you. They respect you, and they’re so grateful for you and everything you’ve done. And I don’t think telling any of them that you’re dating a man will change those feelings.”

“You can’t know that for sure.”

She purses her lips. “No, I suppose not. But I do think I have a pretty good track record when it comes to being right, don’t you?”

Harry can’t help but smile, a watery, salty grin that immediately makes him feel better. “Shut it,” he says.

“Besides, I think you can agree that socially speaking, wizards are a bit more liberal than Muggles. A lot more forward-thinking. I mean, look at how racial difference is treated by wizards versus Muggles. Sure, it’s occasionally a point of contention for wizards, but Muggles are downright evil when it comes to race a lot of the time.”

“But wizards make up for _that_ lack of bigotry by fussing about blood status.”

“I think even that’s already changed a lot since the war ended, though. Speaking as someone who’s been on the receiving end of some pretty nasty blood status rhetoric, I do genuinely think that people—yes, even Pure-bloods—are starting to come around and see that it makes absolutely no difference.”

He stares at her, trying to soak in all of her points.

“So you think that if I…you know, came out, or whatever, that everything would just…be fine?”

She laughs and he frowns. “Yes, of course I do! And even if the whole world did decide to hate you—which would _not happen_ , oh please, Harry—you still have me, and Ron, and the Weasleys, and another handful of people. I assure you that nothing you could do would change how we feel.”

“Interesting,” he manages.

“Harry, it makes me a bit sad that all of this is news to you,” she says, grabbing his hand again.

He shakes his head. “It’s not _that_. I just…suppose I didn’t consider that this wouldn’t be a big deal for you.”

“That’s not what I’m saying at all! This _is_ a big deal. First of all, because it’s a big deal to _you_ , that makes it so for me as well. Second of all, because I already had some ideas of what’s been going on, it just wasn’t as much of a shock to me.” She sighs. “I have a cousin who’s gay, you know.”

“What? Really?”

“Really. And she has a partner who is absolutely incredible, and the two of them are very happy together, from what I understand. So the whole concept of homosexuality is just not something so novel and life-altering for me. But I can tell that it’s really shaken you up, because the realization happened so quickly. I just want you to know that I’m not trying to undermine your feelings, and I don’t want it to seem like I don’t care. Because I do.”

“I appreciate that.”

They sit in silence for a few moments, Hermione’s thumb brushing up and down Harry’s hand.

“Do you want to talk about the Leon situation as well?”

He groans, his free hand going to his hair.

“I’ve really fucked that up, I think. Like, _really_.”

“How do you mean?”

“Well, you remember that day I sort of stumbled past you near the lake?”

“Yes, you were practically catatonic.”

Harry takes a deep breath. “It was because Leon had just told me something very personal, and we had a lovely moment where we…you know, shared some mutual trauma, as you do when you’ve survived the same war. And I just sort of held him and it was a very open and trusting space. Which was confusing, but I rolled with it because I could see that he needed it, and…perhaps I needed it, as well. But then on the way back to the castle, he tried to hold my hand, and I don’t know… I just sort of panicked.”

“All he did was try to hold your hand?”

“Er. Yes.”

“Alright.”

“Why?”

“You just seemed _very_ upset Harry, like something really bad happened.”

“Well—” he starts defensively.

“No, I understand now. Not my place to police your reaction to something like that. Please, continue.”

He nods. “I more or less managed to avoid him for the rest of the week, and then he tried to corner me during _and_ after class today, and I was…dismissive, I suppose. Rude, even. I told him that I wouldn’t talk about because…” He groans. “I said because there was nothing to talk about. And then after the Quidditch tryouts, I said a whole bunch of things I’m not proud of. Like that I don’t even know him, and that he needs to grow up.”

“Oh. Wow. Okay.”

“I’m an evil person.”

“You defeated the _most_ evil person in wizarding history, so I wouldn’t necessarily say that. But Harry, it does sound like you’ve probably hurt him quite a bit.”

He looks at her, a bit shocked. A naive part of him had been hoping she would tell him that everything was alright and that he just did what he had to do. Or something.

“But from what I can tell, it seems like you do genuinely care about him. Or maybe you _could_?”

Harry shrugs. “Like I said, I’m quite confused about the whole ordeal. It is true that I still don’t know him all that well, honestly, even despite the fact that he bore the deepest part of his soul to me.”

“Hmm. Sounds like a good starting point.”

“Starting point for what?”

“Something more? Something serious? Harry, I think he really likes you.”

“But you just said everyone does.”

She sighs. “Don’t twist my words. I mean he likes _you_ , not who he, you know, _thinks_ you are.”

“He does have this way of making me feel like I could be a normal person.”

“Well there you go!”

Harry puts his head down on the table again, more gently this time.

“What do I do?”

“Apologize?”

He lifts his head to look at her, then plops it down again. “There’s no way he would even hear me out to _hear_ an apology.”

“You won’t know that until you’ve tried.”

“You saw what happened in class today! He disarmed me in front of everybody!”

Hermione nods. “A bit immature, and very disrespectful. But he’s upset with you because you’ve blown him off entirely and made him feel like he’s done something wrong.”

“I didn’t mean to lead him on the way I did.”

“But you weren’t really leading him on, were you?”

He tilts his head, asking for an explanation.

“Well, I think that somewhere, even if not consciously, you were also interested in him. So you didn’t think of it as leading him on, because part of you reciprocated the feelings. But whatever the case may be, he feels rejected and you won’t speak to him about why. He could be feeling a number of things. Maybe he’s worried that you’re not actually interested in men and that you’re homophobic.”

“I am _not_! I've just told you that I like men myself!”

“Well, how is he supposed to know that?”

“Fine. I suppose that’s fair.”

“Or maybe he realizes that you _are_ gay and that you don’t like him that way. I’ve heard some gay men are rather good at figuring out when other men are gay, even if they’re not explicit about it.”

“What does that matter?”

“What I’m getting at is that he might want to know _why_ you rejected him, especially because you clearly have some kind of chemistry. Normally I would say you don’t necessarily owe someone an apology or explanation if you turn them down, but this is a bit different. You’ve really sort of left him hanging.”

Something heavy and cold falls into the pit of his stomach. There are so many things swirling around in his head. Is it really possible that he could’ve just pursued this and not feared backlash? Has he been an absolute and utter idiot and ruined his chances with Leon for good? And is it possible that he might be able to make it up to him? If so, what then?

“What do you think Ron will think of all this?”

She blinks. “Bit of a change of topic, but, honestly, Harry? I think he’ll be absolutely fine with it. He respects you so much, and he’s your _best friend_. Will he be confused? Will he ask some less than eloquent questions? Absolutely. But he would do that no matter the subject matter, I think,” she says, smiling.

Harry smiles back and nods.

“I hope you feel…better. If not now, then soon. Because you deserve to be who you’re supposed to be, and you’ve had enough pain for a whole lifetime, I’d wager.”

“Gonna have to agree with you there.”

“Do you know what you’re going to do now?”

He shrugs. “Not really. I suppose I’ll try to apologize to Leon, if he’ll let me. And then regardless of what happens there, I’ll have to tell Ron at some point. Beyond that…I don’t know. But that’s true of a lot of things. I’ll figure it out eventually, I guess.”

Hermione nods. “That sounds like a great plan to me.”

“Thank you for listening to me. And for talking some sense into me. I was really planning on staying in the closet until I turned thirty or something ridiculous like that.”

Hermione laughs, and then remembers they’re in the library and covers her mouth.

“I would’ve respected that decision as well, but I really do think you’ll be happier this way.”

“It’s all just very strange and new, isn’t it? I’m…gay.” He shivers. “It’s going to take a lot of time to properly grow into it, I think.”

“And that’s fine. However long it takes, Ron and I are along for the ride.”

“I love you, Hermione,” he says, feeling particularly vulnerable. It isn’t often that they’re so open about their feelings like this. So often it’s just understood, and there’s something about saying those words out loud that leaves room for rejection.

“I love you too, Harry,” she responds. “So much. I want you to know that if there’s ever _anything_ —whether it be about this, or, I don’t know, just anything—you can come to me to talk about it.”

“I do have a feeling I’ll be taking you up on that.”

She smiles. “I hope you do. Now let’s get down to the Great Hall. I didn’t eat a proper lunch because I was worried sick about you.”

“Sorry about that,” he says sheepishly as they stand.

“It’s alright, Ron ate more than enough for the two of us.” She loops her arm through his as they walk. “Wow, Harry, this is so exciting! We can talk about boys together now. Who do you think is cutest in our year?”

He gives her a look and she goes a bit red.

“A little soon, I suppose. Perhaps later on.”

Harry laughs. “Sure, Hermione. Just a little later.”


	10. sparks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone!! The last chapter had some mixed reviews (especially everything regarding Leon) so for those of you who aren't much fans of him, I can tell you that he is absent entirely from this chapter! Nothing but Drarry friendship (?) goodness here. This is also essentially the last chapter from Draco's perspective in the first act of this fic; we'll get one more from Harry before moving into more meaty plot stuff!! Very excited that I've been so motivated to write this and hoping you're all enjoying it :)

Draco is confused. It’s a good confused, he’s decided, but he’s confused nonetheless.

Because suddenly, it seems Hogwarts loves him. Joetta Winslow had spread the story (and reported it with accuracy, to Draco’s relief) about how her brother would have died had it not been for Draco’s actions.

Plus, he’s just been made captain of a Quidditch team. The fact that his recent… _injuries_ hadn’t interfered much with his flying is another point of tension release. Although, working with Weasley for the whole term will certainly be a challenge. Sure, he’s changed his mind significantly regarding Harry Potter, but _he’s_ given Draco plenty of reason to.

The Tuesday morning buzz in the Great Hall is excited now that the teams have officially been posted for all to see. From the bit of French he can understand (as a Pure-blood, knowing how to communicate with all kinds is seen as not just dignified, but necessary) the Beauxbatons students are particularly looking forward to it. He’s not confirmed whether their school has a league, but he decides he’ll ask that Pierre boy who’s been placed on his team.

When all is said and done, Draco feels content. His most recent session with Mari had been illuminating, _especially_ regarding the Harry Potter situation, and he finally feels like he may be able to find a place in the castle again. Content…No, content doesn’t even begin to cover it.

He’s eating alone today, plenty satisfied studying the people around him now that he no longer feels an overwhelming sense of rage coming from every pair of eyes. Their guests seem to have settled in nicely, and the Slytherin table has become a free-for-all. There is an array of students from other Houses who are mingling with new friends from Beauxbatons, and from the very end of the table Draco smiles, if only just to spite his father. He imagines the look on his face if he were to ever see such excessive unity in the halls of Hogwarts.

As he enters, Harry looks in the way of the Slytherin table and happens to lock eyes with Draco. He surrenders a tiny smile, something weary and soft in his expression. Draco is almost too stunned to respond, as a strange feeling of dread and regret has nearly knocked him backward. He manages to turn the corners of his mouth upward and takes a deep breath, returning to his food to get his mind back in the right place.

Draco almost slices the inside of his throat on a jagged piece of bacon when Pansy tosses herself onto the bench across from him.

“‘lo, Draco,” she says. She sniffs and elects to survey the food selection instead of making eye contact.

“Morning,” he says when he’s finished coughing up bits of bacon. “How’ve you been?” It’s been nearly two weeks since they’ve spoken.

“Fine,” she says, scooping eggs onto her plate and pouring herself a glass of juice. “I just noticed, your hair’s gotten awfully long.” Her eyes are red, the echoes of blotchiness on her face still visible.

“You’re fine?” he asks, not bothering to doctor his tone. She’s right about his hair of course, but now feels like a bad time to discuss why.

She stares at her plate, pushes her eggs around for a moment, and then sets her fork down with restraint. “Do you want the honest answer, or the easy one?”

“Would I have asked if I didn’t want the honest answer?”

She hesitates. “We need to talk.”

“Clearly.”

“Draco, I…I miss you,” she says. His stomach lurches when Pansy’s voice breaks. “And I’ve been thinking a lot about what you said a little while back…”

Draco nods. He remembers the odd sense of righteousness that had taken him over, had caused him to take Harry’s side over hers. It was the right thing to do. He’s even more sure of that now. He prepares himself to hear some bollocks excuse from her in an attempt to win him back.

“You were right,” she says. Her eggs must be fascinating, because she refuses to look up from her plate. Redness returns to her face.

“I—what?”

“I said you were right. Would you like me to repeat it again or are your comprehension skills not what I remember?”

Draco wants to bite back, but he sees the distress she’s in, so instead he bites his tongue.

“I don’t think I understand what you’re trying to say.”

“Nor do I, so if you could just give me a second to get my thoughts together…”

He spreads his hands and sits back, reigning in his expression.

“I’ve seen how things have changed for you, and all in the course of a week. And I’d be lying if I said I don’t envy that. The truth is, I didn’t want to come back here, Draco. My parents told me my options were to come back to Hogwarts or start looking for a new place to live.”

“Pansy, I had no—”

“I’m not finished. I’m sure you get the reason. Honor and facing things head on and not looking like a coward and all that. So I chose Hogwarts, hoping that there would still be _someone_ I knew, hoping that…hoping that _you_ would be back. And even though you fell off the face of the world this summer, I was just so relieved to see you on the train. But you were different. It wasn’t the same you.”

“I won’t apologize for—”

“Gods, Draco, just shut your damn mouth for a minute!” she says. A few heads look their way and she lowers her voice again. “It was really jarring for me, you understand? I’m not saying I want an apology, or that I want the old you back, or anything foolish like that. In fact, I…I respect this new you. And that _really_ scared me, because you’ve turned around so fiercely and so suddenly, and it was really confusing. So I defaulted to what I knew, to how I thought this relationship was supposed to work, even though I knew it was wrong. I dug my heels in. I recognize that now. But I’m so _scared_ , Draco, because I see how wrong I’ve been the whole time, and what if I can’t ever be anything but what I was?” She’s started to cry now. A cold ripple spreads through Draco’s chest.

He stands, wiping his mouth and stepping away from the table.

“Draco?! Where are you—”

“Outside. We’re not doing this here.”

Her disbelief melts into soft gratitude as she abandons her untouched plate and follows him out of the Great Hall. Draco finds a bench down the corridor and sits on it, motioning for her to join him.

“Why are you doing this? I’ve been horrible to you,” she says through more tears. “I heard you were in the Hospital Wing, and my first thought was that…” She shakes her head and fights another sob. “My first that was that you probably deserved it. _That_ was my gut reaction. About someone who I used to consider my best friend. But _I_ don’t deserve this patience from you, so why?”

“Because I know exactly how you feel. Like the whole world already has its mind made up about you. Like there’s no way you could ever change, because people would think it’s an act, or that you’re up to something. Or that people simply wouldn’t believe you. You feel trapped. Like the past still has its claws in you. Is that right?” He could go on. Maybe he should. But the point’s been made.

Pansy nods and wipes her eyes. She glances around and exhales when she’s sure they’re alone.

“How did you do it? You went from the son of one of the most infamous Death Eaters to a practical savior all overnight.”

“Lest you forget that only the former is actually true.”

“That’s not the point. Suddenly people tolerate you. It even seems some might _like_ you. Merlin, even _Potter_ is buddy-buddy with you now! The whole world’s gone sideways, and I feel like I didn’t come with it. I fell on my arse instead.”

“First off, a lot of it was luck. I was in the right place at the right time, and I did the right thing. The fact that the Hogwarts way is to blow every piece of news well out of proportion happened to work in my favor. But really, things started changing when I decided I wanted them to, Pansy. I’ve started seeing a therapist.”

“You _what_?”

“Mother had a similar reaction, though she wasn’t quite as obvious about it.”

“Your mother _knows_? And she hasn’t vaporized you?”

“Yes, Pansy. You see, I’m trying this new thing where I’m honest with people, and that includes myself. Easier said than done. I know. And a big part of that is…you have to forgive yourself. You and I both know well all of the egregious sins we’ve committed, both together and separately. Like I said before, we were on the wrong side when it comes down to it. Some of that wasn’t our fault, of course. Our parents have a lot to do with that, in my case especially. But the point is, we had a choice, ultimately. It always felt like we didn’t really. But we did.”

“Do you actually believe that?”

“Yes, and I think you do too, deep down. I still haven’t really come to terms with it, but that’s the truth. Everybody had a choice. Give in to the fear, or rise up against it. We gave in, Pansy. That’s on us when all is said and done. But what’s important is that it’s passed now. All we can do is make the next right choice, and then the next right choice after that, and so on.”

She gapes at him as her head swivels side to side in shock. “Who are you?”

“I’m still _me_. I feel more myself now than I ever did.”

A moment of silence passes. The torch on the wall opposite them crackles. Draco winces when he thinks about David Winslow, still recovering at St. Mungo’s.

“I…have a lot to think about, I suppose.”

“It seems that way,” Draco says with a nod. “I’m sorry if it feels like I’m trying to get down on you, but I don’t think you’ve been honest with yourself. It’s only natural to cling to what you know, but what we knew was _wrong_.”

She nods. Her eyes are locked on her hands, folded in her lap.

“What does this mean for…us?”

Draco huffs. “I hadn’t gotten that far myself. Pansy, if you’re willing to put everything behind us and try something new—something _better_ —I would love to be your friend again. But I hope you’ll understand that if—”

“No, I understand. I want that, Draco. I really do. I’m going to need some time, I think.”

“I’d imagine so. And if you ever want to talk about something and work it through, I’d be more than willing to listen.”

She smiles, wiping her eyes on her sleeve. “I think I might like this new Draco.”

“Good. I rather like him too, so it seems he’s here to stay.”

“I look a right mess, don’t I?”

“A bit,” he says with a grin. “Might be best to wash up before class starts.”

Pansy lays a hand on top of his. “I really appreciate this, Draco. I know things won’t change overnight, but…I feel like I have at least a starting point now. Thank you.”

Draco nods and stands. “I hope things start to get better for you,” he says, hoping the words don’t seem hollow. He means them. He misses his friend.

 

* * *

 

 

Draco makes his return to the Great Hall feeling proud of himself. His own feelings of absolute isolation are still not far into the past, and hearing Pansy struggle with the same nearly tore his heart out. To think that he was able to provide any help for her at all puts an added bounce in his step.

That’s why it doubly bewilders him when a hiss spreads through the room. Draco tries to maintain a neutral expression as a hundred disgusted ones are thrown his way. Panic rises in his throat as the people sitting closest to him abandon the table when he sits back in his spot. Not a single person will look him in the eye. What could have possibly happened in the ten minutes he was gone?

His whole body goes weak when he sees it. The post arrived in his absence, and the headline of the _Daily Prophet_ reads: “Lucius Malfoy Spotted in Northern Italy.” It’s accompanied by a picture of a disheveled man—who Draco immediately recognizes as his father—sleeping on a bench in an alley. The next picture shows him waking up and taking off into the darkness behind, over and over, a crazed look in his eyes.

Draco snatches up a copy of the paper from the vacant spot to his left, holding it up with shaking hands.

 

> “ _Multiple anonymous sources have confirmed that the man pictured is in fact Lucius Malfoy, known Death Eater and former righthand man of the Dark Lord. Previously assumed to be in Azkaban, it is now speculated that Malfoy has been on the run from the Ministry since the beginning of the summer and never even made it to the prison. In other words, Lucius Malfoy if more likely a fugitive than an escapee. His wife, Narcissa, and son, Draco, have both been spotted in public since, and sources also confirm that Draco is back in attendance at Hogwarts. Questions of the other Malfoys’ involvement in and knowledge of Lucius’ flight must be considered. A team of Aurors has been assembled specifically to locate and retrieve Malfoy.”_

The article goes on to warn against approaching his father or trying to capture him, but instead suggests submitting a tip to the Auror Office. It goes into a further consideration of why the Ministry hadn’t revealed his absence sooner, as well as questions regarding what other Death Eaters or other criminals might be loose. It ends with another discussion of Narcissa’s and Draco’s complacence in all of it, but Draco is unable to read beyond the first few sentences of that paragraph.

Draco can feel scorching tears well up in his eyes. He refuses to let them fall; every person in the Great Hall must be looking at him. He can’t move. His knuckles are white, his fingers nearly tearing through the paper in his hand as his grips it. Finally he slams the paper down, retrieving his bag from beneath him and slinging it over his shoulder, retreating from the ocular daggers flying at him from all sides.

He’s barely made it halfway down the first corridor back to Ravenclaw Tower when he hears running footsteps behind him. And then Harry Potter calls his name.

For a split second, Draco considers stopping. He hesitates, his rapid steps slowing to a normal pace. But he keeps walking, even as his name resounds from again. Doesn’t he understand that this is _not_ the time for whatever it is he wants?

Draco almost trips as a hand grabs his shoulder and he whips around. Harry stands there, out of breath. He looks concerned.

“What do you want?” Draco asks. He tries to fight the shake in his voice, but fails.

“I saw the article,” Harry says.

“I reckon just about everybody has,” Draco says. He starts to turn around, but Harry grabs his wrist.

“Wait! I know what it feels like, so—”

“You do _not_ know what this feels like,” Draco says, his voice low and hoarse. He tears his wrist out of Harry’s grip.

“But I do, Draco. My whole life since coming to Hogwarts has been glorified on the front page of the _Prophet_ at just about every turn.”

“It’s never been this bad.”

“You think I don’t know what it feels like to be accused of something I didn’t do? To suddenly have people completely change their opinions of me based on one bloody article? Look me in the eye and tell me our experiences are so different.”

Draco shakes his head and blinks away tears. “I can’t do this right now,” he mutters as he turns again, only to be whipped around once more.

“Why are you doing this?” Draco says, unable to stop his voice from raising. A small crowd has formed around them, but all he can think about is Harry’s fingers clasped around his forearm.

“I’m trying to help.” There’s something close to desperation in his voice. “I thought we agreed that this stupid rivalry thing was old business.”

“I don’t need your help,” Draco says, trying to pull away. Harry’s grip around his arm tightens, not to the point of pain but enough that he can’t retrieve his arm.

“Last I checked, I’m the only person who’s even willing to speak to you at the moment. And if you hadn’t noticed, I never believed for a _second_ that you had a choice in any of this.”

“ _I said_ _I don’t need your help_.” He isn’t sure where it came from, but his wand is pointed in Harry’s face. The tip sparks, and Draco worries in his anger he might accidentally do something stupid. Through tear-blurred vision, he can see that Harry looks not scared, not even angry, but…disappointed.

The lock around his arm releases and he quickly stows his wand away. For a moment, Harry and Draco stare at each other. Neither says anything more. Then, Draco turns on his heel and takes off down the hallway, pushing through the ranks of observers.

_Perfect. Fucking perfect. I helped my father evade Azkaban and pulled a wand on Harry Potter all in the same day._

 

* * *

 

 

Draco slams shut the door to his room, nearly screaming in frustration when he sees Blaise is there, sitting at the edge of his bed and straightening his tie.

“Bad selection at breakfast?” he asks, only mildly intrigued by the outburst.

“I suppose you haven’t seen the _Daily Prophet_ yet today.”

“Slept late, didn’t get around to eating. Is something the matter?”

Draco and Blaise had never been really close. They hadn’t ever disliked each other, either, but Draco’s ongoing struggle with redefining his relationships now that he’s essentially reinvented himself certainly doesn’t stop at Blaise. Which is why he shouldn’t be surprised by the bare minimum concern, but is nonetheless. Granted, Blaise has undergone some change himself.

“My father has been sighted in Italy.”

Blaise turns away from his mirror, where he had been attending to his eyebrows, and faces Draco.

“You mean he’s not—”

“In Azkaban? No. Seems everybody just assumed that was true until it was proven false.” Draco throws himself onto his bed and pinches the bridge of his nose. The tension in his head is threatening to burst.

“But then…you knew…?”

Draco sits up, too exhausted to even glare at Blaise. He hopes his eyes aren’t red from crying. He simply nods. “Yes, I knew he was on the run. He has been for months now. But what would you have done in my situation?”

“I…don’t know.”

“Exactly. So I kept quiet and hoped he would die in the wilderness somewhere.”

Blaise scoffs. “Draco, he’s still your father,”

“Don’t give me that right now. That man is an abomination and a coward, and a real shit excuse for a father if I’ve ever seen one.”

“Fine. That’s fair. I assume everybody is asking the same question I did.”

“My mother and I are both suddenly suspected of being accomplices in all of this. Which is ludicrous. If I could turn him in—if I could go out and drag him back here myself—I just might.”

“But they’ve spotted him. Doesn’t that mean he’ll probably be in custody soon?”

Draco shakes his head. “He knows that his secrecy has been compromised, so he’ll jump into a paranoid state and be more then careful going forward.”

“Is there anything the Ministry can actually do to prosecute you in the meantime? And what about your mother, I’m sure the paper’s got it in for her as well?”

“I don’t know. Obviously people will think that it’s our fault for not alerting the Ministry about his disappearance. They’ll think we’re singularly complacent in it. But the Ministry also neglected to notify the public when he didn’t show for his trial. Then they came round and questioned us about it and once they were sure we had nothing to do with it, they were on their way. We had some sort of unspoken agreement not to speak about it, mostly for my mother’s safety I suppose. And my own. But of course a third party had to come in and fuck us all over anyway.”

Blaise nods, sitting back on his own bed. “I’m really sorry, Draco. If it means anything, I believe you, and I’ll have your back if it comes down to it.”

Again, a bit of a shock, but a pleasant one.

“Thank you, Blaise. I appreciate that.”

Blaise fiddles with his robes for a second and then stands abruptly. “I have to get to class.”

Draco groans. “Don’t remind me. I was considering locking myself in here for the foreseeable future.”

“Doesn’t make a difference to me. But don’t think I’ll be bringing you food or work or messages from the outside world.”

Draco grins. It’s the closest thing he’s heard to humor from his roommate since coming back to Hogwarts.

“Fine. Maybe I’ll just skip the one. It’s Herbology, so…”

Blaise snorts. “Isn’t that, like, the second-most important topic for Potions?”

“Go to class,” Draco says as he buries his head in a pillow. “Leave me to make my questionable choices and suffer alone. I think I’ve earned the right.”

He hears Blaise sigh, then their door opens and closes. Draco fights the urge to cry again as he reflects on the disastrous previous fifteen minutes of his life, his gut clenching at the question of what happens next. The sudden added insecurity regarding the future really makes him terrified to leave his room, even though he’d joked about it.

Draco gasps when he hears a tap at his window. It’s his owl, Artemis, a beautiful barn owl who’s a new addition to the Malfoy family. His mother had insisted on switching to a breed that was infamously reliable in the fallout of the war and during the summer when they had kept their own extra-Manor excursions to a minimum.

He fights a scream as he stumbles to the window. He knows shooting the messenger is uncouth, but if Artemis is holding a bloody copy of the _Prophet_ …

No, it’s just a letter. He sighs and opens the window, allowing her to hop into his room.

“Not sure how Blaise would feel about having an owl in the room, so, you know…behave.”

Artemis trills at him and tilts her head. While she is quite intelligent, Draco chuckles at himself for speaking to her like she might actually understand. Regardless, she sits obediently on the windowsill. She’s waiting for him to open the letter, he realizes.

He flips it over and sees his first name, written in unfamiliar handwriting. Given the recent familiar revelation, he’s not quite sure he can trust it. Artemis trills again, hopping closer.

“Who gave this to you?”

She flaps her wings and shakes herself out. Draco sighs. He holds the letter up to the light. It appears to be a simple piece of parchment, but simple can be deceiving.

He draws his wand and taps the envelope to test a few spell-detection methods. Nothing. His suspicion alleviated but not gone, he sets his wand down close by and opens the letter. He holds his breath as he unfolds it and braces himself for whatever might be inside.

 

> _Draco,_
> 
> _I’ve just seen today’s_ Daily Prophet _. Just on my way to the Owlery I heard some nasty thingsabout you that I’m sure are untrue. I know I’m breaking protocol entirely by contacting you this way, and showing bias like this as well, but I can’t help but worry, especially after the recent turnaround you’ve experienced in your reception at Hogwarts. It’s enough to give whiplash to even the most mentally steadfast. Don’t feel pressured to write back or even to come see me right away. I just want you to know that you aren’t alone in this moment._
> 
> _-Mari_

Draco reads the letter three, four times. He runs a hand over Artemis’ head as he does, unbothered by the little love nips she attempts.

“Alright, you can go back to the Owlery now,” he finally says. Artemis doesn’t move and continues to look at him. “I don’t have a response, alright? I need some time.”

She clicks her beak at him but is apparently satisfied as she takes off, gliding out the window and out of sight.

Draco leaves it open, momentarily distracted by the morning breeze coming through his room. He collapses into bed, reading the letter again. It does feel like Mari is overstepping a bit, and in other circumstances he might feel uncomfortable. But the timing of this particular act of comfort is well-placed and all he can feel is appreciation for her.

Still, Mari isn’t even the only person on Draco’s side, shockingly. He has Blaise as well. And…

Gods, he’d been the absolute definition of a prick to Harry. Of course he knows how Draco is feeling. It was stupid to deny that, and even stupider to threaten him at wandpoint. With witnesses. _Fuck._ He crams his eyes shut. He tries to turn his brain into a colander, squeezing out all of the thoughts that won’t help him right now, filtering his mind into a clear stream of logic and sensibility. Or, that’s the idea, hypothetically. Today it feels like someone’s poked holes in his mind strainer and nearly everything is getting through anyway.

Despite all of this, Draco feels his eyes starting to close. He knows if he drifts off, he might miss Potions on top of Herbology, but in this moment, a quick nap might allow him some fresh perspective…

 

* * *

 

 

The sounds of yelling are what wake him. Cheerful, free yelling that sounds across the lake to his hiding spot.

Draco sits up abruptly, his head spinning for a moment. Not again.

He hasn’t told anyone yet, but Draco is fairly sure he’s been Apparating himself in his sleep to his favorite spot next to the lake. Yes, he’s well aware of the fact that one should be unable to Apparate himself _anywhere_ on Hogwarts grounds. But Draco seriously doubts that he would be able to sleepwalk undetected to this spot, what, four times now? He’s lucky he hasn’t been harmed or seen, he’s cognizant of that as well.

Not even Mari knows about this sleep-Apparating yet, as he’s been sort of hoping this specific issue would sort itself out. Clearly that was naive. But the implications of why he’s able to Apparate at all are frightening given the event that started this trend.

Draco hasn’t made an attempt to Apparate while awake. Not even just to the next room over when nobody was looking, or back to his own room after waking up here. For years, that rule was one that was so concrete and impossible to break, and now in the course of a week, he’s been involved in five situations that shatter the rule entirely.

In an attempt to get his mind on anything else, Draco watches as students gradually file out of the castle, basking in the warmth of the afternoon.

Wait. Fuck. _Afternoon_.

Not only has he managed to send himself to have a little nap in the wilderness, but he’s slept through the entire day of classes as well. Draco swears to himself as he rubs sleep out of his eyes and shakes grass out of his long hair.

Pansy really had been right earlier, even if she was deflecting. Draco hasn’t had much energy to focus on his appearance beyond the bare minimum as of late, and that’s coming through in the way his silver locks are nearly to his shoulders, straight and thin as ever.

Draco stands, allowing himself a moment to stretch. Most of his joints pop obnoxiously. Supposedly a temporary side effect of the Skele-Gro, and one that he’d rather like to be rid of.

It’s during his walk back up to the castle that he remembers why he’d been sleeping in the first place. Everybody hates him again. He wishes ‘hate’ were too strong a word for the situation, but it does feel like the most appropriate one. It’s not the kind of hate he’s used to, either.

During his many years at Hogwarts, a perfectly mastered brew of fear and contempt had been cast his direction by many a pair of eyes. But this? This new concoction is free of the trepidation and replaced doubly with animosity, cold and distancing.

It blows.

Draco figures going back to his room is a good bet. With the whole day gone, he’s not quite sure how to proceed. No, maybe it would be best to catch up with his professors and apologize for his absence. They’ll have heard the news. That may earn him some sympathy points.

His stomach gurgles at him expectantly and he sighs, looking down at it. He’s always been thin, but looking at the way his robes are wearing him more than the other way around, he realizes that food has become fairly low on his priority list these days. Unfortunately, something else has to win again. Maybe he’ll grab a bite after sorting out his missed work.

Draco is about to turn down the corridor leading toward the temporary Potions “dungeon” when he hears his voice called from behind him.

“Mister Malfoy? Where have you been all day?”

He turns to see Headmistress McGonagall bustling toward him, her expression stoic.

“Headmistress,” he says and hopes his face isn’t as red as it feels, “it’s complicated, but I—”

“Oh, no matter,” she says. “I need to speak with you in my office. Immediately.”

His insides twist. She doesn’t _sound_ mad, but the urgency is enough to give him pause.

“With all due respect, I was about to apologize to my professors for missing class today.”

“You’ve already been excused. I took care of it while you were…Where did you say you were?”

“I didn’t.”

“Right. That’s beside the point. It’s all handled, so if you’ll just come with me.”

Draco stands his ground, his brain telling him to run. He knows it’s not an option, but it feels tempting.

“Can I ask what this is about?”

McGonagall shakes her head. “This really is a private matter, Mister Malfoy. If you’re worried about your safety, I can assure you that nothing bad is going to happen. There are just a few things we need to discuss.”

She sounds truthful enough, and at this point turning her down would land him in detention until he’s married with children.

“Alright. Lead the way.”

 

* * *

 

 

The Headmistress’ office is very simply done and almost cozy. A fire blazes jovially behind her as she prepares a tray of tea and biscuits (for which Draco’s stomach is grateful). The portraits of past headmasters gaze down at them. Draco feels a twang of guilt like a stab in his side when he locks eyes with Albus Dumbledore, who gives him a sad sort of smile and a nod before disappearing from his frame.

“Biscuit?” she says as she places the tray between them.

“Thank you,” Draco says, taking two and laying them on his plate. He accepts a cup of tea from her as well.

“You’re wondering why I’ve asked you here.”

“Am I in trouble?” he asks immediately as he deposits his cup and plate back onto the desk, not hungry anymore.

“I assume you’re referring to the news in the _Daily Prophet_ this morning? You’re not in any trouble with me, if that’s what you mean. Externally…well, I can’t say for sure. But let’s come back to that, shall we? There’s something else I would like to ask you first. About your future.”

“As in…my career?”

“Correct. Do you have any career aspirations yet? Because I would like to recommend the healing profession.”

Draco sits for a moment, stunned. Healing? Why?

“Why?” she asks when she sees the look on his face. “Poppy Pomfrey and I had a discussion regarding your assistance during last week’s incident. She informed me that the choice you made—the one that saved that boy’s life—was _inspired_ and previously unheard of, even for someone like her who has been in the profession for many years. I myself never would have thought to have someone consume a burn salve. Most of us have become accustomed to thinking of medicines like that as purely external, but if it weren’t for your skill matched with your decision making, we’d have an even bigger problem on our hands.”

“I…I’m not sure what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything for now. I just think it might be something you have a natural gift for based on what Madam Pomfrey has told me. I also talked to Professor Slughorn about your performance in his course so far, and he had nothing but praise, even so soon in the term.”

“Healing isn’t ever something I’d considered. My parents…”

“Probably had loftier expectations?”

“You could say that.”

“Regardless, it seems to me that Potions is something that will be in your future in one way or another, and you might just think about how more specifically. I’m not saying you should join the Healing Corps and work with the sickest of the sick in the bowels of St. Mungo’s, either. The developmental side of things is more removed and methodical, and I happen to think you would excel there.”

“Again, I don’t mean to be rude, but why are you telling me this? Shouldn’t it be Professor Slughorn? He’s my Head of House.”

“I’m well aware of that, but _he_ is not aware of the relevant details from recent events.”

The sound of the fire crackling is the only thing that punctures the silence for a few breaths.

“I’ll think about it,” Draco finally says. Now that it’s been brought up, there is something about that career path that seems inviting and fulfilling. Being given the chance to spend his life trying to help others in such a meaningful way? It feels like it could be a second chance, a way to rewrite all of his past wrongs.

“Very good. If I may, I recommend that you speak to Hermione Granger if you want more guidance on the subject.”

“Granger? Why?”

“She recently informed me that she’s looking into healing herself.”

Draco raises his eyebrows, impressed. “I would think she would want to do something…I don’t know. Brainier?”

The headmistress smiles. “It takes someone very intelligent to connect with and heal people in a meaningful way, don’t you think?”

“Perhaps,” he says, taking one of his biscuits. He nibbles on it distractedly, his eyes locked on a section of the patterned carpet below him.

“There’s something else as well.”

Draco looks up, blinking. “About my father?” He finishes his biscuit and raises his cup to his lips.

“Well. Indirectly, yes. I would like to offer you the position of Slytherin Prefect.”

Hot tea almost erupts from Draco’s nose. He coughs and excuses himself for a moment while he reigns in his stray bodily functions.

“You _do_?”

McGonagall smiles again. “Yes, Mister Malfoy, you heard me correctly. A source that will go unnamed practically begged me to offer you the position after seeing potential in you. And in our recent interactions, I have to admit that I recognize the same potential. Madam Hooch seems to think so as well. Oh, don’t look so surprised, of course I’m following this new Quidditch League. Of course, you have to understand that this decision—should you choose to accept the position—alleviates and also adds pressure in different ways. While I try to consider myself above insipid gossip, in the hours since the paper ran that story regarding your father I have already heard some nasty things about you and your mother. Things that I don’t believe myself.”

Draco stares at her. “So what you’re saying is…”

“I’m saying I trust you. And by making you Prefect, all of Hogwarts and then by extension their families will _see_ that I trust you. Are you following?”

He nods, stunned. “I understand, but I…also don’t.” As far as Draco can tell, McGonagall is probably one of the only people at Hogwarts who knows the full extent of his involvement with the Dark Lord during the war. And yet, here she is, taking his side.

“I have it on good word that things have changed quite a bit for you in the past year, and I can only imagine the pain you and your mother are enduring in seeing your father on the run like this. Which is why I highly doubt you have anything to do with it. No, I don’t believe for a second that this is any kind of conspiracy on your part.”

“But _why_?”

“Draco, you’re eighteen years old. You just survived what will hopefully be the most traumatic experience of your lifetime. If I were you, actively aiding in dragging that out would be the last thing on my laundry list.”

“I mean, you’re correct,” he says quickly. “I’m not trying to convince you otherwise. I’m just a bit confused. I’m sure you understand.”

“I do, and that’s fine. I don’t expect you to fully grasp my intentions. I don’t fully understand them myself just yet, but, at the risk of sounding like Sybill Trelawney, I have a strong feeling about this. Granted, you will still be watched ravenously by the public. They’ll be waiting for you to trip up. And that little stunt this morning—yes, I heard about it—is the kind of thing I would advise you avoid. People want to see you blow up. But if you don’t, then…you win, essentially.

“My main point is that I want you to feel safe at Hogwarts. The past aside, my job here is to ensure you get a fair and full education, and if you’re constantly under fire from every stranger you pass in the corridors I imagine it might hinder you quite a bit. This position would force people to see you as an authority figure, but most importantly an authority figure over someone who isn’t them. Slytherin House is the smallest it’s been since its creation, and so making you Prefect isn’t technically giving you all that much in terms of power. I know that, you know that, everybody else would know that. It’s more about the message.”

Draco reaches for his second biscuit, his fingers trembling slightly. She’s right, of course. The actual amount of responsibility would be light, but walking around with a Prefect badge would give him the credibility of being connected to the headmistress. But then…The fact that she heard about him threatening Harry in front of a crowd and is willing to not only excuse it, but _reward_ him? It feels wrong.

“I don’t need an answer right away. If you want to—”

“I’ll do it,” he says and almost knocks over his tea. “Sorry. But yes. I accept.”

“Well, perfect. Very happy to have you on board, Mister Malfoy. Hopefully people’s attitudes will adjust over the next few weeks. There isn’t much I can do in terms of public address at the moment, but I think this new appointment will be enough to make the appropriate waves.”

There’s a knock at the door and McGonagall calls “Come in!”

Draco shifts in his seat to see who it is. Harry Potter pokes his head in the door. “I know I’m a bit early, so I hope I’m not—Oh! Hello, Draco.”

Draco clears his throat, his cheeks burning. “Harry.” He turns back to McGonagall. “Thank you for everything,” he says as he stands up. “I’ll leave you two to your meeting.”

McGonagall purses her lips. “Actually, Draco, you’d better stick around for this.”

Draco and Harry exchanged a bewildered look as Draco takes his seat again and another is conjured for Harry.

“Biscuit, Harry?”

“Thanks, M—Professor.”

Interesting. So Harry is on a first name basis with her. Draco supposes it makes sense, him being a stand-in professor and all that. That doesn’t make it any less strange, especially considering he’d tried to conceal it from Draco.

“So. I know both of you are bright young men, so you’ve probably come to some kind of conclusion yourselves about the origin of some of our recent events.”

They look at each other again.

“Nothing definite,” Harry ventures. “Obviously _something_ is going on, but the nature of the danger is still a big mystery.”

“For me as well,” Draco says.

“It seems Hogwarts is fighting back. Something in the castle doesn’t want us here.”

A stunned silence falls as her words sink in. Harry adjusts himself in his seat and Draco frowns down into the dregs of his tea.

“I thought everything had been deemed safe for students to return,” Draco says.

“It had. The Ministry did a thorough inspection not a month ago and everything was cleared.”

“Except for the dungeons.”

She nods. “Correct. As well as a few other locations that have been sorted out now. We recognized that closing off that entire section of the castle would be a sacrifice, but one we were willing to make if it went life at Hogwarts could continue as normally as possible. Which is why I issued a warning during our first night together not to enter areas that were specifically sealed off. I don’t say these things because I like making rules, I do it for your protection.”

“You’re saying you think somebody went down into the dungeons anyway?” Harry asks. He scoots to the edge of his seat, his eyebrows knit together.

“That’s the only explanation I can currently muster. The dungeons were sealed by highly trained Aurors, so the likelihood of danger escaping on its own would be near impossible. How any student would’ve been able to bypass the defenses is another question entirely.”

“What’s…what’s down there?” Draco asks. He’s suddenly not sure he wants to know. The dungeons have always been a place he considered home, but if it turns out they’re not safe…

“I’m sure you remember the debacle from many years ago regarding the so-called Chamber of Secrets?”

They both nod.

“Hogwarts has a multitude of mysterious and undisclosed areas, many of them under the surface. I’m sure Mister Potter knows a little something about that.”

Harry’s face has turned a bit red.

“During the inspection…something was found. I don’t know what. Even as Headmistress of Hogwarts my clearance level is apparently not high enough,” she says, sniffing. “But the castle is old, and my theory is that there are some long forgotten threats that have been contained previously that were disturbed during the battle. Or things that were left here with the intention of being released eventually.”

“So we’re talking about potential dark magic? Old, outdated stuff?” Harry asks.

“Potentially. I have alerted the Minister of Magic of my suspicions and my understanding is that the Aurors will be returning any day.”

“Why not go down there and see if you take care of it yourself?”

McGonagall smiles sadly at him. “I am no Albus Dumbledore, Harry. I cannot do the things that he could.”

“But we could help you!” Harry says. He looks over at Draco, then says more quietly, “I mean, I don’t want to speak for everybody, but I would be willing to assist.”

“I appreciate that, but I could never ask that of you. I think it’s best if we let the professionals handle things this time around. I’ll be making an announcement tonight to ensure everybody that the recent dangers are being investigated and will hopefully be put to a stop soon. I’m informing you ahead of time not because I’m asking you to do something about it, but because I trust you both and felt you deserved to hear it personally. And especially you, Draco, after what you survived.”

He nods, unsure how to respond.

“So we’re just supposed to sit on our hands and hope David was the final victim?”

Before his question is finished, the door flies open. Professor Sprout stands there, out of breath and wild-eyed.

“Headmistress, we need you at the staircases. There’s been another accident.”

“Sweet Merlin,” she mutters as she rises. “If the two of you could just remain here, I’ll be back as soon as this is handled.”

Draco realizes his heart is beating like crazy and he takes a deep breath.

“This is fucking stupid,” Harry says as he crosses his arms. “We’re just supposed to sit here and do nothing when we know some kind of ancient magic is loose in the castle?”

“How exactly would you fight back against it if you _were_ given the opportunity?”

Harry blinks at him. “Right, you still don’t know me all that well. Planning isn’t much my thing. I tend to jump in and figure things out as I go.”

“And that works for you?”

Harry chuckles. “I’ve survived the last eighteen years of my life, haven’t I?”

“That’s true.”

A comfortable silence develops. Draco does wish Harry would stop fidgeting in his seat and looking at the door, though. It’s fraying his nerves. Seconds turn into minutes and Draco starts to consider leaving despite their instructions. At one point his stomach grumbles and when Harry indicates the tray of biscuits with his eyes Draco can’t help but roll his own. He takes another biscuit anyway. On multiple occasions it seems like Harry is about to say something but can’t get the words out. Not very Gryffindor of him.

Finally, “Look, Draco, about earlier—”

The door swings open and a distressed Minerva McGonagall sweeps into the room, waving her hand to shut the door behind her.

“One of the rotating staircases vanished completely,” she explains as she takes her place at her desk, “while a student was on it. And one from Beauxbatons, no less. She fell twenty feet, maybe more. Someone tried to cast a Cushioning Charm but just made things worse.”

“My gods,” Harry murmurs.

“She’s not…you know…?”

“She is alive, but in critical condition. Luckily we were able to get her to St. Mungo’s immediately. If we hadn’t…Well, no need to even consider it. I feel responsible,” she admits, her eyes misty.

Harry shakes his head. “You’re doing everything you can. There’s no obvious source, so fighting back against it is impossible at the moment.”

“I know. Thank you, Harry. But I assured Madame Maxime that her and her students would be safe here, and now this? I’m sorry, you two. You shouldn’t have to see me like this.” She pauses, clutching a hand to her chest. “You may go now. I thank you for your patience.”

They both stand exchanging a concerned look.

“Minerva, if there’s anything you need—”

“No, no, I’ll be fine. I just need to process.”

Harry nods and sighs as he disappears the two chairs. Draco is stunned. It takes some gall as a student to ask the _headmistress_ if she needs anything from you. Even if you are Harry Potter.

“Oh, Mister Malfoy, I can’t forget to give you this.” She reaches into one of her drawers and hands him a Prefect badge, which he slips into his pocket for now. “Wear it well,” she says. She musters a smile as Draco thanks her.

The two boys exit her office in silence, mulling over this new dark development.

“She seems really shaken,” Draco finally says once they’re well out of earshot.

“Wouldn’t you be?”

“I don’t _blame_ her, it’s just upsetting to see.”

“We have to do something.”

“Again, I’ll ask _what_? And you heard her, somebody going down there is likely what lead to all of this mess in the first place. We don’t know what we’re dealing with, so we should just let the Aurors reseal the dungeons and conduct their investigation without interruption.”

“Already laying on the responsibility, I see,” Harry says with a grin.

Draco damn near gasps. “It was you, wasn’t it?” It suddenly makes sense. Why McGonagall had been willing to overlook his potentially violent outburst, everything she’d said about how he’s changed. Only Harry could’ve convinced her of that so easily.

“Hmm?”

“You’re the one who begged McGonagall to make me the Slytherin Prefect.”

“ _Begged_ feels like a strong word, but I did make a suggestion to her.”

“Why?”

“Because you deserve it, and I didn’t feel like being acting Prefect anymore on top of everything. And you’ll do a good job.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“I don’t know. Call it Head Boy’s intuition.”

“I should hex you.” He regrets the words as soon as he says them. He flashes back to their altercation only hours prior.

“I’m not mad, you know,” Harry murmurs.

“About what?” It’s like Harry had read his mind. Or his face, maybe.

“Don’t be thick. You tried to curse my face off this morning. You know, I really do understand what you’re going through. With the _Prophet_ and all that. I was just trying to help.”

Draco nods. He’s accepted that by this point. Though he still feels like Harry had overstepped earlier, his insistence on being a comforting force for Draco is suddenly more soothing than annoying. “And you’re not mad.”

“That’s what I said, isn’t it?”

“I just don’t understand _anything_ about you,” Draco says and stops walking. Harry stops as well and turns to him.

“We’ve talked about this already. I don’t want to get into the past and all of that bullshit. If you think I have some kind of ulterior motive—”

“No, it’s not that, and that makes it even more frustrating. Because you’re just _nice_.”

“I’m…sorry?”

“I’m not frustrated with you, I’m just…really mixed up at the moment,” Draco admits, his heart pounding. “I just don’t get how someone who’s been through so much can still be so forgiving. Especially to me.”

Harry takes a step toward him. Suddenly Draco is hyperaware of his own body. His fingers fidget with his robe. His long hair, still messy from his lakeside snooze, falls in front of his face. His posture, typically pristine, is now relaxed and natural. He stands a few inches taller than Harry, who has taken another step closer. His eyes…they’re such a beautiful green, and the way they interact with Harry’s skin tone makes Draco’s mouth go dry. The way his eyes refuse to look away.

“Honestly,” Harry says, his voice low. Vulnerable. “I don’t really understand it myself. Ever since we’ve returned, I’ve just had this weird feeling that we’re supposed to be friends. When you smiled at me before getting on the train—” _which had been nothing_ , Draco thinks, “something about that moment made me re-contextualize everything I thought I knew.”

“That’s…One smile can’t do all of that. It was just a stupid smile. You’re not making any sense.”

“I don’t care. I’m saying what’s on my mind. And _you_ asked.” Draco feels like he might actually perish when Harry smiles, a slightly crooked but pure smile that shows a flash of white teeth.

“Um.”

Harry is standing _very_ close to him now. Draco wants to step away. No, he…he wants to step _forward_. Without thinking, he reaches his hand out and touches Harry’s. There’s nobody around, just the castle walls and the paintings and the distant sound of dripping water. As soon as his skin makes contact, Harry recoils, squeezing his eyes shut.

“I’m sorry, I…” Draco says. He fights a bubbling pool of nausea that threatens to boil over his edge as he takes a step away. Had he misread?

“No, I’m sorry. I. Er. I need to go. Homework and all.”

“Right,” Draco says, his voice nothing more than a breath. He stands frozen as Harry turns andrushes down the corridor, his robes billowing behind him.

 _Oh no. No no no. This is_ not _happening_.

Draco finally forces his feet to move and he presses his fingertips to his temples, rubbing gently. Where had it _come from?_ He couldn’t recognize the signs because it’s been so long since there _were_ any signs. So long since there was the itching desire in the back of his mind to spend time with someone, a desire he’d been writing off. The insults that carry no meaning. The banter—the _flirting_. The sparks when skin meets skin. The feeling that he’s actually in his body, that life is something to be lived, not just something _happening_ to him.

Draco hadn’t realized any walls had come down until Harry was already on the wrong side of them.

**Author's Note:**

> If you're enjoying this fic, please leave me a comment! I'd love to hear what's working for you and scream about your favorite moments or dialogue. Or, if you have suggestions or critiques, I love those as well! Comments are my lifeblood :)
> 
> Also, I've recently added my social media to my bio page. If you're interested in talking about this fic or writing in general feel free to reach out there as well!


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